


Pining in a Bottle

by gurklette, HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (From Chapter 2 Onwards), (kind of- its not roach- so don't worry), Animal Death, Attempted Sexual Assault, Banter, Bi!Geralt, Blatantly Ignoring Canon, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Falling In Love, Gay!Jaskier, Goodgirl!Roach, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, It's an AU is what I'm saying, M/M, Murder, Mute!Jaskier, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, They're both dumb idiots, We make our own rules here BITCH, or perhaps more accurately- realising they're in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurklette/pseuds/gurklette, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence/pseuds/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence
Summary: After a nasty spell leaves Jaskier mute, Geralt is left having to awkwardly navigate the sudden change in their dynamic as he determinedly scours for a solution. Ex-lovers, powerful curses and estranged family aside, it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the building tension between them without Jaskier's usual leviety and wit.Geralt never thought he would see the day where Jaskier's frivolous, never-ending commentary would be preferable to the sweet sound of blessed silence, but here they are.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Roach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier/Original Male Character (Past)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt's breakfast together take an unexpected turn when Jaskier is confronted by an ex-lover.

The moon had long since risen in the sky by the time Geralt of Rivia and his bard finally reached Springdale, the town they had been travelling towards non-stop for the last three days. 

The bard, Jaskier, could have cried at the solace of the light that bled out from inside the town's tavern, signalling there was still someone inside who was going to be able to get them their rooms. It had finished buzzing with its nightly drunkards and regulars about half an hour or so ago, its owner finishing up the last little bits of lock up, the last of his patrons having already stumbled back to their respective houses or rooms.

"Oh, thank the Gods," cried Jaskier. He was dead on his feet but moved ahead with more urgency, eager to catch the barkeep before he went to bed himself.

Roach clopped lazily behind him, Jaskier glancing behind to flash Geralt atop a bright smile.

"See!" he exclaimed. "I told you we'd make it! I cannot wait to roll into a feather bed, I don't think my back could have taken another night on that damned forest floor." Jaskier looked back ahead. "Too many twigs."

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted in lieu of a reply, eyeing up the tavern as they drew closer to it. He preferred the forest over places like this - inns always stunk of old ale and piss and previous tenants to Geralt’s sensitive senses - but he was glad to find somewhere that would alleviate him from the bard’s complaining for a few hours.

He led Roach to the small stables attached to the side of the inn, and a scrawny stable boy was awakened from where he’d been slumping against the stable wall, rising, half-asleep, to take Roach’s reins.

“Mistreat her and I’ll have your head.” Geralt told the boy, fixing him with a scowl of his golden eyes; a familiar ear would be able to tell that the threat had no real intent behind it.

Jaskier watched the hand off with an amused, tired smile. He wondered idly if Geralt even realised he was putting the fear of the Gods into people when he spoke to them like that. Probably not, but Jaskier decided he'd prefer to keep it a mystery.

Geralt returned to Jaskier’s side once the stable boy nodded his head, the movement vigorous and nervous, and began removing Roach’s tack.

“Hm. We won’t stay long if there’s no contracts to take,” he told Jaskier, grey hair dirtied and wavy from several days of uninterrupted travel. “Earn what you can before then. We need the coin.” He pushed ahead and went inside, grabbing his coin purse to pay for his own room.

"Bossy, bossy," sang Jaskier at Geralt's instructions, a swing to his stride as he followed close at his heel.

Geralt approached the front counter with heavy footsteps, Jaskier’s own steps a light patter compared to his companion's.

Just before Gerlat reached the bar, Jaskier deliberately cut in front of him, settling an arm on the counter and tucking a foot behind his own ankle.

Geralt took to glaring at the back of Jaskier’s head when he cut in front of him, sighing and turning his head slightly to glance around the otherwise empty area as the bard went about paying for their rooms. It wasn’t the worst place they’d ever stayed in, not by a long shot, but the faint, lingering smell of diluted ale and vomit still soured his nose.

Jaskier tapped the toe of his boot against the wooden floor. "Hello there!" he greeted the man behind the counter, "Master of the house, I presume?"

He flashed Gerlat a quick wink, reshifting his lute's case strap. Travel had withered Jaskier's appearance, too, locks greasy and windswept, skin grubby from the constant cycle of perspiration sweating and cooling thanks to Gerlat marching him like a soldier for hours on end. He was looking forward to a wash that wasn't a cloth dumped in the river and then swiped around under his armpits and crotch.

The inn-keeper turned around from his tankard wiping. He looked Jaskier up and down, then to his lute, and then to Geralt, then to his steel. He made no comments, replying with an impassive, "Aye."

Jaskier grinned. "Great. Two rooms for two nights, please." He punctuated the words by holding up two fingers.

The inn-keeper set down the tankard, wiping his hands on the cloth. "No can do."

Geralt focused back in on the inn-keeper when he expressed that the request couldn’t be fulfilled, his lips pressed into a hard line, further emphasizing his moody expression.

“We’ll take whatever room you have.” Geralt intercepted, eager to cut the conversation as short as possible. It had been a few weeks since his last job and the lack of activity left him feeling a bit irritable.

Jaskier's face had fallen in disappointment, but straightened up as Geralt spoke.

The inn-keeper considered Geralt as he set down his cloth with beefy hands, seemingly not too frightened by the Witcher in his premises. "That, I can do," he agreed lazily to Geralt's terms. He was a simple man who didn't care much for rumours or magic, much more interested in coin.

He took the pair upstairs where his rooms were. The inn-keeper jiggled a ring of keys off his belt, unlocking a door at the end of the hall and pushing it open with his foot. He lit up the lamps, bringing the interior to life. It was small, but not too dingy, although the main problem became apparent as soon as Jaskier and Gerlat got a look inside: One bed.

"Last room I got," explained the keep. "Twenty coin a night, up front. You boys are lucky I even had something for ya." He then proceeded to hold out a hand expectantly.

"Oh... Ah- yes, of course." Jaskier wrestled out his own coin purse, counting out the silver pieces into the man's hand before Geralt could. He made an attempt at friendly conversation, "Guess we'll have to make do with what-" 

Coin deposited, the keep simply walked away.

"...and he's gone. Okay." Jaskier brushed it off, understanding it was late and the man no doubt wanted to get to bed.

Geralt withheld a tired sigh, closing the door behind them and latching the lock habitually.

Jaskier eased his lute off his shoulder with a sigh, flopping his bottom down onto the bed. He looked to his friend with amiable familiarity. "Shall we flip a coin for the floor, then?"

Geralt took the few short steps to the compact writing desk tucked into the corner of the room, lifting the sheath and the swords held within it from his back and laying them down across its surface. He stood with his back halfway facing Jaskier as he started the process of undoing all the straps of his armor.

He considered pointing out that the bed was large enough for two. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t slept in close quarters before, but those times had only ever been in the extreme cold. He glanced over his shoulder at Jaskier and thought better of it.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said plainly, shrugging his pauldrons off and placing them beside his blades. “I could do without hearing you complain of sore joints come dawn.”

This wasn’t to say that Geralt would find the floor any more comfortable than Jaskier did, of course. Unfortunately, his accelerated healing didn’t serve to keep his back from aching after weeks of riding Roach and sleeping on hard, uneven forest floors, but he was much more accustomed to it after many decades of experience.

"Oh come now," said Jaskier. "I'm not some maiden. Don't be so uncooperative and toss me a coin, Witcher."

He grinned wider at his own cleverness and watched Gerlat unabashedly. Jaskier enjoyed getting to see his deft and capable hands do something so methodical. It was also undeniably a nice thought that he was one of few people trusted enough to get to see The White Wolf without all his gear, without his clothes, even. That particular honour was definitely Jaskier's favourite; Gerlat had glutes to die for, not that Jaskier was ever going to tell him that.

"Fine, I'll get one myself," continued Jaskier when Gerlat was, predictably, uncooperative. 

He fished out his lucky coin, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, trying to capture the other’s attention. He held the coin between his index and middle finger. "Castle or flame, friend?"

Geralt made a noise that sounded very annoyed in response to Jaskier’s insistence, although in reality he wasn’t actually bothered. He lifted the chest-piece off of himself and rolled a sore shoulder.

“Flame,” he replied. The legs of the writing desk’s chair scraped against the floor as Geralt pulled it out and disrupted the relative quiet, the wooden slats soon making up for it, creaking and groaning when he dropped his full weight onto it so he could go about unlacing his boots.

Jaskier, pleased he’d given in, flicked the coin up into the air, it flying so high it almost touched the ceiling. He jumped to his feet to add to the theatrics of catching it, slapping the coin to the back of his hand. He approached Gerlat, crouching down so he could do the reveal before him, like it was something of utmost importance.

"Ta-da!" he cheered, uncovering the coin: Flame.

Jaskier's shoulders sank, letting out a melodramatic groan and falling to his arse. "Alas," he said, sombre. "It seems Lady Luck wishes for my body to suffer yet another night."

The edge of Geralt’s mouth ticked up in a slight smirk. “Hmm,” he hummed, adding after a moment, “maybe next time you’ll be wiser than to tempt her.”

It went unsaid that he wasn’t looking forward to hearing Jaskier toss and turn throughout the night, but hoped that his exhaustion would allow for easier sleep than usual; he doubted, however, that he’d be that lucky.

Once he was out of all his gear, Geralt got up and plopped himself down on the bed he’d won the rights to, although he grabbed the flattened feather-stuffed pillow and threw it at Jaskier for him to use. He told himself that it was because it smelled too much like strangers for it to be pleasant, and not because it might make Jaskier more comfortable.

Jaskier let out a soft _oof_ as the pillow collided with his face, crying an indignant, "Hey!" Still, he was thankful for it, a pillow would mean less of a crick in the neck the following morning.

“Sleep.” He told him, tone coming out more gruff and demanding than he expressly meant it to.

Jaskier huffed. "Good night, then."

He began to wrestle off his own boots, exhaustion leaving his eyes and little watery and heavy-lidded now he'd burned through his last little bit of adrenaline. After Gerlat had extinguished the lamp, he shifted about on the flood boards, blue eyes staring out at the unfamiliar wall a few moments before fluttering shut. 

It took about five minutes for the shivering to start up, the howl of the wind outside cutting through the rickety window, up through the floorboards.

Geralt tried to ignore Jaskier’s tremours and the creaking of the old floorboards beneath him for several minutes, but eventually ended up rolling onto his side to look at him through the dark. The dim shine of the moon through the small window on the adjacent wall was enough for Geralt to see the scene clearly. He thought Jaskier was an idiot for giving up his place in the bed, especially when Geralt had been ready to let him take it without argument. He could’ve slept on the ground instead with no problems.

Geralt sighed heavily and shifted onto his back, making room beside him on the bed. “Jaskier,” he called out after a while, “I can hear your teeth clattering from here. Just come and share the bed.”

Jaskier, wide awake, didn't need much more proposition than that. He sat up without missing a beat, bringing his beaten pillow with him as he dragged himself up using the edge of bed and climbed in beside Gerlat. He told himself his chill was just because he had gotten so used to sharing the forest floor with a mutant radiator (said bed partner) and that he would have adjusted to the temperature in the next hour or so if Gerlat wasn't such a bleeding heart.

"Thank-you," chattered Jaskier, a light blush of embarrassment to his cheeks he was thankful his travel companion couldn't see. "I would have been fine, you know," he tacked on. "But a blanket is preferable."

Jaskier began to get himself settled underneath said sheets without pulling them away from Gerlat's body.

Geralt didn’t believe for a second that the bard ‘would have been fine’, but didn’t have the energy nor the desire to challenge the statement. Instead he grunted quietly and closed his eyes, waiting for Jaskier to get comfortable and go to sleep.

When Jaskier went under, his dreamt steady and deep, little snuffles sliding out on occasion through his nose. His mouth moved on occasion, mouthing along to whatever was happening in his dreams, although no audible words left his lips. His subconscious was unguarded, knowing it was somewhere safe.

Geralt deliberately stayed awake to listen to how his breathing slowed and evened out, how the beating of his heart lulled, somehow amplified by the quietness otherwise surrounding them. It was a welcomed change from his typical chattering, and Geralt found that he liked the quiet and familiar sound in such close quarters.

After a while of indulgence in it, he drifted off as well.

⁂

Jaskier was awoken by the dawn pouring through the window the next morning. His face had been smushed up against the pillow all night, and as he exhaled and shifted from his side onto his back, it was revealed the pressure of the wrinkled fabric had embossed long, red marks into his cheek.

He blinked up at the water-stained ceiling, attention quickly moving to the space next to him.

Geralt had already been awake for an hour by the time Jaskier came around but had yet to get out of bed. It would be useless to, he rationalized, because he could hear from the distant commotion in the kitchen downstairs that breakfast was not yet ready to be served.

He was laid on his back with his eyes closed, resting his head on his forearm in the place of a pillow, his own breathing quiet and steady. It seemed like he was still fast asleep, but a few moments after he felt Jaskier shift awake, he spoke with his eyes still closed, “Morning.” 

Geralt’s voice was even rougher than usual after hours of disuse and Jaskier jumped ever so slightly, having thought he was still asleep.

"Good morning," returned breezily Jaskier. He found himself having to look back at the ceiling when the sight of Geralt, sleep-addled and rugged, predictably stirred something in his lower belly. That damn witcher had no right to be looking so delectable so early in the morning.

The bard sat up, stretching out his body. "Ah," he said, "that's the best night sleep I've had all week." He was still in the clothes they'd arrived in, doublet and all, the room much too badly insulated for the luxury of even removing his socks. "After breakfast I'm going to find the bathhouse." He side-eyed Geralt. "You should come, too."

Geralt gave a noncommittal hum but agreed internally, the idea of a hot bath sounding very, very appealing. He could bathe in ice-cold rivers without complaint for weeks on end, but that didn’t mean he preferred it.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Jaskier’s back once he was sat up. He noticed how his hair was tousled by sleep, and that the bed no longer smelled of the strangers that had slept in it before them, but rather like himself and Jaskier. He preferred it that way.

“Stock up on whatever you need for the road while we’re here,” Geralt replied instead, moving to get out of bed as well. “The path between here and the next town is isolated and without shops.”

"Good idea. We should see what they have at their market," agreed Jaskier, sweeping his feet out over the edge of the bed. He dragged over his boots, slipping his feet inside and beginning the task of lacing them up with a yawn.

He knew the townsfolk most likely wouldn't be too pleased to find a witcher in their marketplace, but Jaskier strongly believed the cure to people's fear of Geralt's kind was exposure. Nothing was going to change if Geralt kept insisting on spending his time in these populated areas sulking in darkened corners. 

Geralt was of the opinion Jaskier just hadn't been around as long as he had, still young and optimistic.

"I do hope they have black pudding," said Jaskier. "I think I saw some pigs when we entered the town last night."

Geralt, too, put his boots back on and slipped a sheathed dagger into his waistband quietly, concealing a weapon beneath his tunic as was habit for him. He often listened when Jaskier spoke, but it was sparse that he acknowledged his fanciful commentary. He elected to leave his armor and swords on the writing desk for the sake of being stared at less during breakfast.

Once they were both ready, the two companions went downstairs to the tavern. A few townspeople and a handful of guests from the inn were gathered, people already chatting at their tables about the supposed presence of a Witcher, but those conversations quietened to anxious whispers once Geralt entered the room. Braver souls eyed the pair curiously.

Geralt picked the table tucked into the furthest corner of the room, taking a seat and gesturing for the young barmaid to come take their orders when he saw her pretending that she hadn’t seen them in order to avoid his presence.

She looked positively nauseous as she brought herself over to their table.

"Good morning, fair flower," Jaskier greeted the barmaid to soften her tentative arrival.

She gave the barest of smiles, visibly comforted by Jaskier's friendliness. "Morning. What can I get for ya?" she said. Her eyes flickered, anxious and quick, to Geralt, but remained primarily on Jaskier.

"Two plates of whatever they're having," Jaskier answered for the two of them, gesturing to the nearby table. "And two pints of ale." He gave her a pleasant smile. "Much obliged, sweetling."

Unlike Geralt's weapons, Jaskier had brought his lute case down with him, unable to part with his treasured instrument unless absolutely necessary. He removed his songbook from inside once the barmaid had tottered off, quill and ink pot, too.

"What?" he asked when he felt Geralt looking at him.

Geralt almost appeared to be glaring, but in actuality he was only thinking very carefully. He was wondering if Jaskier was about to compose a poem or ballad about the nervous barmaid. It sounded like something he’d do. Geralt hadn’t noticed anything special about her, but apparently Jaskier had a much more keen eye for artistic inspiration than he did. He also wondered how he never got tired of writing when only a select few of his notes were ever actually turned into full songs.

Ever the conversationalist, Geralt voiced none of these curiosities and simply replied with, “Hm.”

Jaskier shrugged off Geralt's non-response, attention going back to leather bound pages.

Geralt turned his gaze from Jaskier and glanced about the room for anyone that seemed like they’d need a Witcher.

Most of the tables tried to hide their interest in Geralt once his gaze passed over them, returning jerkily to their hushed conversations and gossip. As usual, everyone was oblivious to the fact every word they said could be heard thanks to Geralt's enhanced hearing.

By the bar, a man who looked to have just passed his thirtieth winter or so was staring intensely at Geralt's table, although unlike the rest of the patrons, his poisonous gaze wasn’t on the Witcher, and instead, was arrowed directly at Jaskier.

Jaskier was oblivious, turning through his scribbles and sonnets to a fresh page with the low hum of a new tune he'd just begun working on. He had the music, all he needed now were the lyrics. He dipped into his pot, telling Geralt as he scribbled, "Look at that. I didn't even realise how low I was running on ink! Good thing we're in a bigger town. Right, Geralt?"

Geralt noticed the man staring daggers at Jaskier’s back almost immediately, tension prickling in his shoulders automatically at the first sign of danger. 

He shot the man a glare, but seemingly went unnoticed. Geralt guessed that perhaps the man was excessively religious and opposed to the presence of a bard who carried a flirtatious reputation as Jaskier did. They were in the West, after all. 

He tried to remember if he’d been to that town before with Jaskier, but was unsure, and therefore couldn’t know for certain one way or the other if the bard made enemies there. It was possible. For someone so generally well-liked, Jaskier seemingly had a talent for accumulating enemies.

Jaskier began to sing different rhymes to the chords in his head; the longer he spouted nonsense, the more it became apparent he was attempting to put together the tale of their journey to the perpetually frozen lake a few weeks back. Geralt had been sent there to kill the overgrown river snake trapped under its surface, its presence draining the sacred place's healing energy.

Geralt glanced between the man and Jaskier a few more times, but decided not to bring it up lest he initiate some kind of confrontation. Instead, he kept a close, but subtle, watch on the stranger.

After a while, they were brought breakfast.

Jaskier beamed at the sight of their plates stacked high, graciously thanked the barmaid and dug his fork into the blood pudding. He groaned in delight. Just what he had been craving. "What is it about food past the West Border tasting so good?" he asked, despite knowing he wasn't going to get an answer.

The stranger behind him had yet to look away. Geralt eyed the man over the bard’s shoulder, a frown worked onto his face. 

Jaskier noticed Geralt was distracted. "Would you stop looking for work and just enjoy your breakfast?" he scolded. "Surely even you can admit this is better than charred rabbit."

“Hm,” was, again, all Geralt said. He picked up his fork.

The man’s incessant staring was starting to annoy him, and being on edge made it difficult to eat. He took a long drink from his tankard of ale, sighing out heavily through his nose. Geralt changed his mind about keeping it to himself.

“You’ve got an admirer,” he said, dry, although Geralt’s sarcasm was barely noticeable in his tone. “Perhaps he’d like to know when you’ll perform next.” 

"Oh?" Jaskier followed Geralt's gaze over his shoulder, lazily searching for whoever was supposedly looking his way. Then his gaze fell directly into Sasha's. His entire body froze up.

_Oh, fuck_ , thought Jaskier. When he turned back to Geralt, his face was drained of colour.

"Maybe I should give him my setlist," Jaskier attempted at a bit of fun as a defence mechanism, octave a bump higher than normal, trying to play it off like the man was as a stranger to him as he was to Geralt.

Geralt didn’t buy Jaskier’s bullshit for one second. He narrowed his eyes at Jaskier, as if it would give him some insight on the current situation, but ultimately sighed and leaned back against the booth seat. “Hm. Maybe you should.”

Geralt went back to eating his breakfast despite the irritation of being lied to.

Jaskier suddenly wasn't feeling very hungry, setting down his cutlery as his stomach churned. He supposed Sasha had every right to be angry with him. The last time they'd seen one another, Jaskier had unintentionally broken up Sasha's betrothal to his wife-to-be after all.

Several minutes passed. Geralt could see the man kept staring in his peripheral.

Geralt clenched his teeth a moment. “Tell me, bard,” he eventually settled on, “Do you manage to make an enemy everywhere you go, or do they simply follow you around?”

"What?" scoffed Jaskier with a half wheeze of a laugh, too stressed to play off Geralt's bluntness with something clever. There was a man behind him who had the power to expose Jaskier's private affairs and every motive to do so. Clearly Sasha hadn't forgotten the whole spectacular cock up, if his murderous gleam was anything to go by.

The West was notorious for its intolerant beliefs, distrusting all forms of that which supposedly strayed from the righteous truth; from elves to shamans to promiscuous women. If a Witcher wasn't enough to have them run out of town, the news he was being accompanied by a pouf of a bard definitely would.

Not to mention, Jaskier had no idea how Gerlat himself would react to the news, especially with how intimate their sleeping arrangements tended to be.

The sound of a chair scraping had Jaskier glancing behind himself again. 

Oh Gods, he was coming over. 

Jaskier tried to appear unpanicked, giving Geralt another tight smile.

At the man getting up from his chair, Geralt could detect Jaskier's sudden spike of panic through the souring change in his usual scent, though he could've told just as easily by looking at Jaskier’s expression.

Geralt didn't understand why Jaskier would withhold information from him when he had openly asked for his protection in the past, but stayed silent to allow Jaskier to figure out if he wanted his help himself.

The stranger reached their table. "Fancy seeing you here," he opened with. His smile was bitter and his eyes swirled with wickedness.

Jaskier, his usual charm disjointed and awkward in a way Geralt had never seen, gave Sasha a jerky smile back. "Oh! Hello, Sasha! You're certainly correct, fate does tend to be rather unpredictable, does it not? How good to see you doing well." 

Jaskier’s eyes pleaded with Sasha desperately. _Don't,_ they screamed, _Please don't. Please don't._

Sasha just smiled right on back.

"Geralt," continued Jaskier, strained as he performed introductions he didn't want to make, still baring a fake smile of his own. "This is Sasha. He's an old friend of mine. Sasha, this is Geralt. My travelling companion."

Geralt could smell the scent of terror rolling off Jaskier in waves.

Sasha looked a little apprehensive of the Witcher, but still acknowledged him, "So this is the famous Geralt of Rivia of your songs. I suppose I should be honoured.” Despite the flattery, Sasha was visibly disinterested, gaze soon snapping back to Jaskier. “You certainly have been doing well for yourself these past few years, hm? Leaving the rest of us behind you've used as stepping stones."

Geralt glanced between the two, but didn't say anything because the odd, unspoken tension between them was making him uncomfortable. Since he was entirely clueless about what to do, he elected to do nothing at all and instead continue eating his food like nothing was happening.

Jaskier laughed like Sasha’s words were meant to be a joke.

Sasha's intent stare indicated it was anything but, smile dropped.

Geralt found himself relieved that he'd brought his dagger with him to the table, worried that a fight would be inevitable.

"I'm glad you find my life, you ruined, so funny," spat Sasha.

The rest of the inn bustled busier as more travellers left their rooms, more townsfolk popped in for food and company.

Jaskier gulped. "Sasha- I didn’t mean-”

“No, you never do,” said Sasha. 

“I’m-”

“I bet you thought you’d never see me again, huh? After you ran away like the coward you are.” Sasha was harsh, but his words were hidden under the hubbub around him. "But you know what, Julian? No matter how bad things ended up, at least I should be thankful my life isn't so pathetic that the only thing willing to bed me is an unfeeling monster." His gaze flitted to Geralt after daring to say such a thing to his face.

Jaskier's face lit up with embarrassment, a hot flash of panic in his stomach, but a fire of protectiveness lit up stronger and won. He stood up. "Don't you dare talk about him like that."

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted the argument. He ignored Sasha and instead shot Jaskier a single look that said: _Don’t._

Jaskier scowled. His fists were bundled at his sides, but after a beat he ultimately did as Geralt wanted and plonked back down into his chair, jaw set tight.

Geralt was far beyond being actually offended by either the implication that he was bedding Jaskier or that he was a monster, although he did wonder why he’d called Jaskier ‘Julian’. Perhaps it was a nickname. Whatever the reason, Geralt just desperately wanted a quiet morning without him or his bard getting involved in a pointless fight.

Jaskier seated, Geralt looked to Sasha and glared at him in an effort to scare him off.

Sasha was unsettled to be on the other side of a Witcher’s disdain, intimidated, knowing his kind would have no problem killing him as if swatting an irritating fly. 

Fear aside, Sasha couldn't help himself from finishing off with a smug smile towards Jaskier for successfully provoking him. "I was going to tell you and your dog to leave town tonight, but it seems you're the one on the lease.”

He spat a glob onto Jaskier’s breakfast, snatching up Jaskier’s ale to keep for himself and swanning off back to the other side of the tarven.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as Sasha spat on his food, but otherwise stayed silent and let him go.

Geralt was relieved. He watched Sasha until he felt he was a safe distance from Jaskier, but made no attempts to carry on the confrontation any longer.

The source of the man’s anger certainly seemed like a grudge to Geralt. He sighed as his gaze fell back onto Jaskier. “What’s his problem?” he asked gruffly, despite his suspicions.

"Envy is a green-eyed monster," replied Jaskier simply. 

His confidence had been knocked down a few pegs (scratch that, several pegs) and he needed a few moments to recover, unable to meet Geralt's eye quite just yet. 

“Hm.” Geralt appeared annoyed, but wasn’t. He dug a few coins from his own purse and dropped them in front of Jaskier’s plate; enough for another meal and tankard.

It was overwhelmingly obvious that Jaskier was being dishonest and Geralt wondered why he felt the need to lie. He had assumed that Jaskier would have had much more to say about the confrontation, he always did, especially if he believed the other party had been in some way unjustified. 

The fear that had sweated from Jaskier, only just beginning to dissipate from his scent, was equally inexplicable under his explanation. Geralt had certainly never known for something like envy of all things to make Jaskier panic.

Geralt guessed that Sasha was either a forgotten close friend or, more likely, a scorned lover. He decided shortly thereafter that he did not care and that it was not his business.

Jaskier, on the other hand, was thankful the other seemed to have not understood the full extent of the situation. 

He silently nudged the little stack of coin Geralt had offered back towards him. Jaskier’s appetite was gone, so instead he pushed his ruined breakfast aside and went back to scribbling in his song book as an excuse to keep his gaze down.

On the other side of the table, impassive, Gerlat swiped his gold back up and continued eating his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should be out by next week.
> 
> thanks honey bunnies,  
> aiya＆LA


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's attention remains on the lack of work Springdale has to offer, that is until Jaskier returns to the tavern that evening, frazzled and panicked, scribbling wordlessly on parchment.

Plates empty, the pair left the inn for the bathhouse on the other side of town.

The settlement was on the smaller side, but the streets still bustled with people going about their morning routines. Jaskier had brightened considerably after what had happened over breakfast, taking Geralt straight down the main street with the excuse he wanted a nosey at the market stalls on offer. No doubt, if Geralt were alone, he would have taken the longer route around the outskirts of the town instead, through it’s farmland.

"You always make getting through the crowds so much easier," Jaskier teased his companion. "I'll be saddened to lose the luxury once we part ways again." They walked side by side, nervous townspeople splitting like the red sea to avoid them. 

Geralt glanced to Jaskier, amused, although it didn’t show on his face. “Surely if you wanted to part the crowds, you could just start singing,” he replied, the insult having no real bite behind it.

Jaskier let out a merry laugh. "I think you'll find my singing _draws_ the crowds." 

Geralt grunted, the barest wisp of a smile appearing when Jaskier looked back ahead. He thought that if Jaskier believed him to be so convenient, he ought to just not part ways with him. He didn’t consider actually saying as much out loud, however, partly because it would make Geralt uncomfortable to admit it, and partly because Jaskier would undoubtedly take it as a compliment.

Jaskier stopped abruptly by a fruit stall for a nectarine, dropping a coin he shouldn't be spending on such fancies into the young stall girl's palm with a wink.

She smiled, popping the silver into her apron.

Jaskier took a mouthful of its juicy flesh, bouncing along to catch back up to Geralt. "Mm. One of life's sweetest pleasures.” He took another bite, chewing and swallowing. “Could I tempt you with a bite?" 

Jaskier held out the fruit to Geralt despite already having a good idea of his answer. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the offer but allowed himself a brief glance to Jaskier’s lips, slightly wet from the fruit's nectar. He didn’t grant a reply, rather just tilted his head in the direction of the bathhouse to remind Jaskier of their goal. He was feeling restless and wanted to hurry up so he could start looking for a contract.

They ended up finding the place fairly easily thanks to the steamy swirls escaping its slitted window, the roar of the heath Geralt was able to hear with his sensitive ears. Once inside, Geralt requested his bath first, and without question allowed Jaskier into the room with him once the water-girls had filled a tub with steaming water. 

“No one has approached me yet,” he commented once they were alone together, unabashedly ridding himself of his clothing. “I doubt I’ll find work here.”

Jaskier's back was strategically to Geralt as he began undressing, busying himself with what the water girl had left out on a nearby table. There were little bushels of dried herb, vials of oil and a pouch of rock salt.

"Don't be dramatic," replied Jaskier, impish and smiling as he plucked at what the bathhouse had on offer. "I'm sure the lucky townsman who's after your sword just needs a little liquid courage. An evening at the tavern should fix that, and if not, my performance will no doubt collect us some coin either way."

He turned once he heard the slosh of Geralt lowering himself into the water, rubbing together bits of dried lavender and rock salt between his palms, coming forward to sweep it off into the water.

“Hm,” came Geralt’s non-reply, rubbing a hand over his opposing arm to scrub away a patch of dirt. He wondered why Jaskier always put things in his bath even though he didn’t particularly care about smelling nice like the bard seemed to, but since the lavender wasn’t an offensive smell, he didn’t comment or complain.

Jaskier squatted down, elbows coming to rest on the edge of the bathtub, chin in his hands. "I don't know how you can stand it so hot. It's practically still bubbling, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t seem to acknowledge the observation, but was actually considering his next words, perhaps more than the average person would need to. He eventually settled on, “I don’t feel extreme temperatures as humans do.”

Jaskier had re-straightened by the time Geralt spoke, had dragged over a stool and was in the process of filling a jug with some of the bath’s water. 

He blinked in mild surprise, having not expected any sort of real explanation. It seemed Geralt was feeling uncharacteristically talkative. In all honesty, when Jaskier thought about it a little more deeper, Geralt had been the most chattiest he'd ever been during this particular stretch of co-travel. He supposed they _were_ coming up to a near half decade of knowing one another. Maybe Geralt was finally adjusting to his presence. It was a nice thought.

"...What does it feel like, then?" he inquired, a genuine question that withheld Jaskier's usual, neverending mirth. He began to undo Geralt's ponytail.

Geralt wordlessly allowed Jaskier to pry loose the tie in his hair, scooping water up in his hands and using it to wash over his face as he did so. He thought for a few moments about how he wanted to respond.

It was easier to form replies for Jaskier when he wasn’t being actively annoyed by his chatting or stressed about a hunt, but Geralt still found it difficult to hold casual conversation when it wasn’t expressly necessary.

“It’s... dulled. Less intense,” said Geralt, although his memories of what life felt like before undergoing his mutations were vague at best. “Makes travel easier.”

"I see." Jaskier fawned out Geralt's rumpled hair once it was down, dumping the water jug over it. He gathered more water and repeated the action, rolling up his sleeves and beginning the task of gently untangling the knots with a comb carved from bone. He hesitated a short moment before he shared, "One of my old professors taught me about the Trial of Grasses."

Geralt was leaning against the side of the wooden tub as Jaskier’s skilled fingers worked through the tangles in his hair, glancing in the bard’s direction slightly when he mentioned the Trials.

“Hm.” He couldn’t think of anything to actually say, so instead he left the silence open for Jaskier to elaborate if he wanted to.

Jaskier waited to give Geralt an out in case he didn't want to discuss it, but when his broad shoulders stayed loose, Geralt responding with a lazy, non-committal grunt, he felt like he was being given a pass. 

"Ghastly stuff," he commented. Jaskier thought the alchemist responsible should be ashamed of all the innocent children he'd caused such pointless, tortured deaths, of the people like Geralt he'd subjected to a long and winding life of suffering. 

Geralt wasn’t sure that Kaer Mohren was as dreadful as Jaskier thought, but then again, perhaps he may be biased in its favour since it was the only place he had ever considered to be his home.

Jaskier took a particularly difficult knot in his hands, touch patient as it unraveled it. "You know, my parents used to threaten to send me there whenever I misbehaved as a boy. I'm sure you would agree that I would have not survived even a single night in that dreaded castle."

“You wouldn’t have,” agreed Geralt. He could remember his first several days were spent at the castle either sobbing and begging for his mother or attempting to escape over the walls. Someone of Jaskier’s disposition would have surely been even worse off.

It was odd to think, though, that he would’ve already completed his training by the time Jaskier’s parents could threaten to send him there.

"Hey!" cried Jaskier, prodding Geralt's beefy bicep with playful indignation. "You're not supposed to actually agree with me!"

He smiled and went back to brushing Geralt's hair, letting the backs of his fingertips brush against the Witcher's skin a little more than was strictly necessary. He couldn't fight the occasional peak over his friend's shoulder into the transparent water, either, beginning to hum the same tune he had been at the breakfast table earlier that morning.

Geralt enjoyed the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers carefully brushing through his hair and scraping against his scalp, though he would never admit it or allow any sign of obvious contentment to cross his features. It was rare for Geralt to allow anyone so close when he wasn’t planning on fucking them, but the fact that he could excuse Jaskier’s touches as nothing more than assistance in grooming himself made it easier for him to handle without growing defensive.

As much as he had initially objected to traveling with Jaskier, the bard had grown on him over the years, and Geralt found he could tolerate him much easier than he’d been able to previously.

His company was even pleasant from time to time.

"I have another question, actually."

Geralt grunted.

"Are your chiseled, personable looks a symptom of your _witchering_ , too? Or is that part just good genetics?" When Geralt looked back at him, Jaskier flashed a cheeky smile.

Geralt glared and pointedly didn’t dignify his lighthearted question with a response. He instead went back to scrubbing himself and enjoying what was, likely, going to be only a brief stint of peace and quiet for a while.

Jaskier laughed lightly. "Lighten up, grumps," he teased and raked both hands through Geralt's long locks, its strands now untangled and smooth, ready to be washed more thoroughly. 

Doing Geralt's hair was one of Jaskier's favourite tasks, his calloused fingers worn from years of plucking strings, unable to keep the affection he had for the older being out of his touch. He got up to mix oil with bath salts and herbs, easing back onto his stool to massage it into Geralt's hair, taking his time rinsing it all out before he clasped his naked shoulder. 

"Once you're dressed I'm going to fetch the watergirl to freshen the water," said Jaskier, passing over a towel. "As dear a friend as you are to me, Geralt, I'm not sure I want to take my own bath in a pool of Witcher sweat and mud."

Jaskier left Geralt to get dried and dressed, going to pay his own fee. He expected Geralt to have already left the premise upon his return.

It usually went like that; Jaskier would wordlessly help Geralt with his hair (when permitted) and by the time it was Jaskier's turn in the tub, Geralt would already be out and sulking around the town looking for work or checking up on Roach.

Geralt, still in the bathing quarters, considered staying for a change while Jaskier bathed.

He typically left after he was finished because it was what he was used to. Receiving casual touch from a close friend was one thing, but dishing it out was another; as he mulled the idea over in his head, he felt tension build in his shoulders at the thought of doing something so out of character for himself.

Perhaps with how valiantly he’d been avoiding thinking about his newfound appreciation for Jaskier’s attractive features and pleasant voice, staying to help him bathe without being prompted was a bad idea.

Geralt decided to air on the side of caution and dismissed the notion altogether, coming to pass Jaskier in the bathhouse hall as he returned to the washroom, watergirl in tow.

“Meet me back at the inn,” Geralt told him, although he gave no specific instructions on when. “And stay out of trouble.” He clapped a firm hand on the bard’s shoulder in a gruff show of familiarity as he moved to walk past him.

"I will give it my best, most valiant effort," returned Jaskier with a little half-bow flourish and a sparkling smile, surprised he'd even caught Geralt at all on his journey out of place since he had been already fully dressed when he'd left the room.

⁂

The two of them remained apart for the majority of the afternoon once they'd parted, which wasn't terribly unusual for the bard, who often got talking with the locals or busy with what the markets (or brothels, when his pockets weighed heavy enough) had to offer, or terribly unusual for the witcher, who would stalk around looking for work, maybe take Roach for a little leg stretch.

The sun had just begun its descent into the nearby forest when Jaskier came bursting into the tavern they were staying in, although he lacked his infectious merriment. He had a white knuckled grip on his lute case, blue eyes dancing around to the different corners of the pub in search of his companion.

"A bard!" cheered a drunkard at Jaskier's presence. He was clearly marked as a performer from his attire and the instrument case on his back after all. The man was already stupored half-blind after a day of the non-stop flow of ale, continuing, "Sing us a tune, will you?"

Jaskier just flashed an awkward smile, continuing to search manically for Geralt.

Geralt was sat at a darkened table tucked into a far corner. He had had terrible luck on his search for work, returned to the inn in the late afternoon after being told by the alderman that they hadn’t had a monster anywhere near the village in years.

He spent some time upstairs sharpening his swords, and returned to the tavern when evening rolled around to drink and pass the time. Geralt looked up from his tankard of ale when Jaskier’s presence was announced, a quiet sigh pushing through his nose as his gaze landed on his frantic expression.

It seemed he’d gotten into trouble despite Geralt’s best efforts to warn him against it.

When Jaskier found Geralt, he bee-lined directly for his table, having never been more relieved to see his smouldery glare. He ignored the cries of irritation behind him from the man who had just been requesting a song, removing his bag from his shoulder and saddled into the space beside Geralt.

He wrestled out his songbook, dropping his quill a few times in his panic, finally getting it dipped into his newly-filled ink pot.

A frown settled onto Geralt’s face as Jaskier completely ignored a willing audience to cut directly to him, attention staying on the room around them as Jaskier began writing something with a level of anxiousness Geralt wasn’t used to seeing in him. He guessed that if he couldn’t communicate out loud, then that the matter of discussion was highly secretive, or that there was someone nearby waiting to listen in.

Either way, Geralt prickled at the rising sense of danger.

“Jaskier. Spit it out,” he said, gesturing with a twitch of his fingers for the bard to just come closer and speak quietly, not understanding.

Jaskier shook his head, upset that he couldn't do as Geralt asked, wanting nothing more than to _spit it out._

 _'SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH MY VOICE,'_ Jaskier scrawled. 

He immediately regretted how big he'd made the inscription. He only had one and a half pages of parchment left and no more coin to buy more, not after he'd spent the rest of his money on his bath and perishables at the market. There were only a couple pieces of bob rolling around at the bottom of his purse by then, having intended to earn back what he lost that night, but that wasn't happening anymore.

He turned the songbook around, pushing the written message forward for Geralt to read.

Geralt glanced down at the paper and hummed when he read the message. He recalled that his voice had been perfectly fine that morning but wondered if he’d simply strained it sometime during the day, though he supposed that if the explanation was so simple he wouldn’t look so upset.

“Can you not speak at all?” he asked, remaining composed and calm as he tried to assess the problem. “Try.”

Some patrons watched the two of them from the corners of their eyes, some curious, others held suspicious.

It was Jaskier's turn to shoot a brief look of disbelief and roll his eyes. _Of course I've tried!_ he wanted to say. _Why do you think I'm freaking out, Geralt!_

He gave a huff, but even the exhale of air from his lungs made no sound. Jaskier put all of his concentration into trying to give a simple 'no,' but all it resulted in was the bard wincing at the sharp pain it created, hand flashing up to his throat.

Jaskier’s eyes pleaded with Geralt to help him.

Geralt’s frown deepened. “Hmm.” 

He seemed to think for a moment, considering his next course of action.

Though the way the troubadour gripped his throat reminded him of when he’d been previously attacked by a Djinn, Geralt surmised that what was affecting the bard now was much more complex. If even his very breath was silent, it had to be the work of magic rather than a damaged voice box. A curse, he decided; there were few other ways to hurt someone with magic without standing face to face.

Great.

“Come on,” Geralt instructed, abandoning his drink to get up from the table and head for the stairs.

Jaskier stuffed his things back into his lute case and hurried behind Geralt, only catching up to him half-way to their room. He, too, was thinking of how it was just like the Djinn all over again, albeit less painful, Jaskier's stomach knotted inside out he was never going to be able to sing again.

Geralt unlocked their door and went about collecting his swords from the table, glancing over his shoulder at Jaskier as he followed inside behind him. “You’ve been cursed,” he told him plainly.

Jaskier came beside Geralt, gave him a look of, _and what are we going to do about it?!_

There were many things he had wanted to say in the last few minutes alone that left him riddled with frustration. He had wanted to tell Geralt to wait after he'd stormed off, make a jibe about his advanced athleticism once he reached him and exclaim his displeasure as Geralt confirmed his suspicion his infliction had been caused by magical influence.

“Relax.” Geralt said, making an effort to calm him down. He could hear his heart beating quicker than normal in his chest. “It won’t kill you, and I can probably lift it.”

Geralt realised after he’d said it that ‘probably’ wasn’t the most comforting word he could’ve used, but there was no rescinding it now.

Jaskier's expression relayed with relative ease both his impudent disbelief and amusement at Geralt's awkward attempts at comforting him. His hands came to his hips as he shifted his weight to one side, cocking an eyebrow.

“The man from earlier is likely our culprit,” Geralt continued, fixing the sheath over the armor he’d dressed himself in earlier as he clarified, expression as unreadable as always, “your lover. Where’s he live?”

Jaskier’s nervous energy still buzzed, although it had begun to relax back to a hum, that was until Geralt causally brought up 'his lover.’ Jaskier's eyes widened, a deep red exploding over his cheeks, brain stuttering as his heart rate picked back up. He shook his head side-to-side rapidly. He wasn't sure what he was denying the most vehemently; Sasha being his lover or Sasha being responsible for the curse.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier as he continued to deny what he was already sure was true; his extreme embarrassment at the suggestion only confirmed Geralt’s suspicions further.

“Stop lying, Jaskier, this is serious.” 

Geralt faced him fully. He knew what a risk the bard would take in admitting it and he understood the source of his nervousness surrounding the subject, but it was difficult to come up with the right thing to say.

“It’s not my business who keeps your damn company,” he managed, squaring his shoulders. “But come _on_. Scorned lovers have done worse. Stop pussyfooting around and show me where he stays.”

Jaskier physically recoiled as Geralt saw through him so easily, squared up to him and scolded him. It was a small mercy to be granted when Geralt made it clear it wasn't his business who Jaskier bedded, although Jaskier was still terribly ashamed to learn his tastes were so obvious.

He couldn't look at Geralt, feeling small with no way to verbally defend himself.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, cold sweat on the back of his neck. He retrieved his writing implements. 

_'I don't think it's him,'_ he wrote with a shaky hand, holding the parchment out for Geralt to read.

Sasha could be plenty petty, as demonstrated that morning, but Jaskier had been in his bed on and off for many a winter before they'd been caught. The Sasha he knew wouldn't want to cause even his worst enemies any real pain, just inconvenience and humiliation.

Geralt huffed a sigh as he read the message. “Unless you have a better suspect in mind, I suggest we pay him a visit either way.”

He could tell that his way of comforting him hadn’t really worked out very well, but words didn’t come naturally to Geralt, especially not ones meant to soothe or reassure. Jaskier had no reason to be embarrassed, yet saying as much out loud proved a daunting task.

“I need to know how the curse was cast to lift it.” Geralt focused on the facts. “I can’t really help you until I find the mage responsible, Jaskier.”

Jaskier set his book back down so that he could reply. He would have made a noise of irritation to find his quill had run dry, but nothing came out. The man squatted and rummaged around in his bag but was unable to find the little pot. Shit. He must have left it downstairs.

He slammed his hand down on the table with a little more force than necessary to help himself up to his feet. His eyes flashed around the room in search of a solution, landing on the room's mirror.

He approached and blew over the glass with hot air, using a finger to wipe words into the mist. _'DONT KNOW WHERE,'_ he blew more hot air, _'HE LIVES,'_ another, longer breath, _'KNEW HIM FROM,'_ a final puff, _'DIFFERENT CITY.'_

Geralt watched quietly while Jaskier struggled to find a way to communicate, giving another, “hmm” as he considered the message disappearing rapidly on the glass.

He knew he would have a difficult time finding out the information himself. The townsfolk seemed particularly wary of him and he couldn’t send Jaskier to charm an address out of them, either. Not to mention the fact that Geralt was low on coin himself, and Jaskier’s current predicament would be keeping his purse empty for quite a while, eliminating the possibility of bribing anyone. He doubted using force would get him anything other than an angry mob running them from town as well.

“Shit.” This was shaping up to be more difficult than Geralt would’ve preferred. “Can you think of anywhere he’s likely to hang around?” he tried.

Jaskier frowned in thought. The town was in a religious area and Jaskier hadn't been there long enough to know of any places people like him and Sasha might frequent.

His eyes lit up at a thought, opening his mouth instinctively to tell it to Geralt before his expression quickly turned to pain. He tried to make a groan of frustration, but again, nothing left his lips. Jaskier, resigned, returned to the mirror. _'BREAKFAST'_

“Hm.” Geralt pressed his lips into a firm line as he thought.

He didn’t like the way Jaskier’s face contorted in pain when he tried to speak, or how ashamed he’d looked when he’d brought up Sasha, or the restless feeling growing stronger in his stomach at the inability to do anything right. He couldn’t think of a way to remedy the first two issues, though, so instead he settled for addressing the last.

“Stay here,” he ordered, heading for the door. “I’ll see if I can find him before then.”

 _Absolutely not,_ was Jaskier's first thought, immediately on Geralt's heels. Besides, he needed to fetch his ink pot before it was stolen or broken. Just because his voice was gone didn't mean that he was suddenly an invalid.

Geralt made an annoyed noise similar to a growl when Jaskier’s footsteps followed behind.

He turned to face him at the bottom of the stairs, appearing to scowl at him for a few moments, though he was only trying to select his next words. He was worried that Jaskier could no longer talk his way out of conflicts, and felt uneasy at leaving him around other people, though he’d already made up his mind about searching for Sasha by himself for a while.

Jaskier didn't back down when Geralt glared at him, instead meeting his serpent eyes head on with a steady, unimpressed look of his own. He was never afraid of him like everyone else was

“Stay out of fucking trouble,” was what Geralt arrived at, deciding that there wasn’t enough present danger to force Jaskier to stay in their room. He stomped away to collect Roach from the stables.

Jaskier rolled his eyes when he was told to stay out of trouble like a child. He dipped across to their previous table, wanting to scream when he saw the remnants of the ink he'd just spent the majority of his coin on crushed from drunken feet on the floor, a pool of black stickiness. He plucked up the cork stopper, chasing after Geralt and catching him just as he was leaving the stables.

He would have remembered it if Geralt hadn't ran upstairs so suddenly without him, if he'd just waited for Jaskier to pack up his things!

Roach whinnied quietly as Jaskier came out to see Geralt, the horse leaning forward to sniff at him as her owner held her reins. Jaskier’s hand automatically moved out to offer to Roach as he was sniffed, but flashed a more focused glare at his friend. 

He waved the cork stop in front of Geralt's face after on boderlining tantrum levels of frustration.

“We’ll get more soon,” promised Geralt, though he wasn’t sure that he had enough coin as it was.

They would need to leave town as soon as possible for Geralt to find work; he hoped that finding and interrogating Sasha would yield good, quick results. As much as he typically wished for Jaskier to be quiet, he was unsettled by how he was now unable to fill the silences like he usually did.

Jaskier wanted to demand where exactly Geralt planned on going, what his plan was. The sun had set by then and the streets were empty. Was he just going to ride up and down the streets hoping to bump into Sasha? If the man wasn't at the tarven, then he'd be at home. There were at least three dozen houses. Did Geralt really think this was the best option? Knock on every single door? Frighten the residents?

Jaskier was putting his foot down.

He shook his head, putting a firm hand on Geralt's chest to stop him from moving. He jerked a pointed hand to the inn's upstairs windows, where their room was, both hands then wildly gesturing at the darkness around them.

Geralt was quiet while he watched and tried to decipher the message, yellow eyes seeming to glow in the dim light outside the inn as he glared back at him.

He understood by the time Jaskier had finished that he wanted him to go back inside with him. He also realised that going out on his own would be useless and unlikely to produce anything productive, and that Jaskier was right to tell him not to go, but Geralt felt antsy and useless just waiting around, especially when he couldn’t drown out his worries by listening to Jaskier perform.

“Shut up,” said Geralt, stubborn. “I’ll be back before dawn. Let me be.”

Jaskier was briefly relieved Geralt seemed to get a semblance of what he was trying to communicate, but frustration won out that Geralt was still insisting on his own, ridiculous plan.

 _Fine!_ sparked back his unflinching gaze in the lamp light. Part of him, in all honesty, just didn't want to be alone. He was frightened the affliction was something permanent, not being able to share the thoughts constantly buzzing about his brain a mile-a-minute overwhelmingly was suffocating- and Jaskier had only lost the ability all but a couple hours ago.

Jaskier stormed back inside.

Geralt watched him go. He told himself that he wasn’t at all bothered by his apparent inability to say something that could make his friend feel better - in fact, he decided this proved that he was of better use to Jaskier looking through the streets than he was sitting beside him - and set off on Roach into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _yes_ , we know TECHNICALLY Jaskier doesnt get attacked by the djinn until he's forty(ish)
> 
>  _yes_ , we are blatantly ignoring that fact so that Geralt already knows Yennefer
> 
>  _yes_ , we love our dumbass boys
> 
> much love,  
> LA & aiya x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt does his best at comfort and a new day dawns.

Wandering the streets, obviously, proved useless, except for clearing Geralt’s mind. 

His first stop had been at the town healer’s house once he’d found it. Geralt had rudely interrupted her dinner to inquire about there being any mages in town, but luckily, she was a forgiving woman and allowed Geralt inside to inform him that there was not, but that all sorts of talented strangers passed through Springdale, many of which could be capable of casting curses. 

He had asked her whilst he was there if she knew Sasha, to which she replied in the negative and sent Geralt on his way.

The most useful discovery he had made was overhearing two merchants passing him in the streets talk about some Necrophages that were rumored to hunt the trading routes leading into a farming village some ways away. He supposed someone might have a contract for him that way if it were true, and committed the information to memory before returning to the inn.

It had been a few hours by the time Geralt finally returned. 

Jaskier was playing his lute in bed idly, the door unlocked, glancing to Geralt as he entered before he returned his attention to the wall above the door. His [tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFJEEDtSCs4) was sombre and pathetic to match his downtrodden mood (he knew he was being silly, but he didn't care.)

He had one knee up, boots off, his back rested against the headboard. The front of his doublet was undone to reveal swirls of light, chestnut body hair, working off muscle memory as his fingers plucked and strummed.

Geralt watched Jaskier a brief moment once he had closed the door back behind him before he went through the practiced motion of removing his weapons and armor again.

He was glad that Jaskier didn’t seem any worse than he had left him, discreetly keeping the bard in the corner of his eye. Geralt had seen Jaskier in bad moods before, of course, but rarely were they so silent and justified.

The swirling desire to protect him from the pain he was experiencing pulled at something uncomfortably in Geralt’s chest, which he excused as the naturally protective disposition of a well-trained Witcher. There was, too, the unavoidable thought that Jaskier looked nice with his doublet undone, face lit gently by the flickering of a nearby lamp, that made his assertion all the harder to convince himself of.

Geralt tried not to think about it.

“Move over,” he said as he went to join Jaskier on the bed, giving his best attempt at softening his tone to something a little less demanding.

Jaskier didn't move, didn't even look at Geralt as he continued his song, the plucking gaining a little more force.

He was still mad at Geralt for leaving so abruptly when Jaskier had specifically asked him (...well, specifically _gestured_ to him) to stay. The few hours he had been gone had been laborious and long and Jaskier had sat, anxious and alone, as he listened to the sounds downstairs, stomach swirling that perhaps Geralt wouldn't be coming back at all.

After all, it was Jaskier’s assumption Geralt was only keeping him around due to the steadier income his occupation garnered, that now his voice was gone he was going to find himself abandoned in the next heavily populated city they crossed the path of.

Geralt stood a moment and waited for him to make room for him on the bed, sighing when he was ignored.

Jaskier was suspiciously quiet even for someone who couldn’t speak. 

Geralt didn’t like having to speculate what he was thinking when it was normally laid out for him rather plainly. 

“Hm,” he grunted. And then, “Jaskier.” 

Jaskier paused his playing. Unimpressed eyes of blue slid to Geralt.

He was giving the other defiance to try and soothe his glaring insecurity that now Geralt had no more use for him, he would therefore no longer tolerate his eccentricities. He wanted to get this confrontation out of the way sooner rather than later.

Geralt mulled over what he wanted to say next. He was going to tell him to move again, but then thought better of it. He eventually managed, “Don’t worry.” 

Geralt didn’t think he sounded very comforting, but it was a start.

Jaskier's unhappy eyes softened.

His hold on his instrument loosened, holding Geralt's gaze a few more moments before he laughed at the Witcher's terrible, horrible attempt at comfort. Of course, it made no audible noise, but his eyes still crinkled and his smile still brightened, shoulders bouncing.

He felt foolish for ever doubting Geralt's soft heart, shifting aside to make room for him on the bed.

Geralt was surprised, although mostly relieved, that his attempt at making him feel better had actually seemed to cheer him up somewhat. It was difficult to tell whether or not Jaskier was laughing _at_ the effort rather than _because_ of it, but he supposed it didn’t really matter as long as it had the desired result.

He huffed as he creaked onto the space Jaskier had made for him on the little bed, shifting down onto his back. He settled in for sleep, closing his eyes but not quite drifting off, leaving the lamp to burn its oil so that Jaskier could continue to strum his lute if he so desired. 

Usually Geralt by that time would tell Jaskier to stop playing, but he found that he didn’t have the heart to take that from him, too. Geralt knew music was very important to Jaskier, that his lute must be his remaining solace now he was left unable to hum or sing or even fill up the pages of his songbook.

Jaskier watched Geralt settle on top of the sheets beside him, thumb brushing through the strings of his instrument lightly. 

He allowed his gaze to stay on Geralt more steadily once he had closed his eyes. 

Jaskier admired the line of Geralt’s jaw, his cleft chin and broad nose, his sweeping eyelashes and his silver hair. Lovely. He really was the most gorgeous man Jaskier had ever had the pleasure of viewing, spoilt getting such an up close seat to his muse. 

He wondered how Geralt had come to work out the peculiar habits of his bedroom. Had he come to the conclusion before or after that morning? Was he aware of Jaskier’s fondness for him? If he was, he certainly hadn’t made any indication of it, hadn't even so much as batted an eye when he had demanded Jaskier tell him where Sasha resided. 

_“It’s not my business who keeps your damn company_ ,” he had said, like it was nothing. 

Jaskier melancholy was bittersweet as he began plucking the notes of another [ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wK3TGs13_AI).

Beside him, Geralt listened to the quiet, pleasant melody. He relaxed and drifted into a light sleep.

⁂

Jaskier was predictably still asleep when Geralt was roused by the first sounds of the inn workers, the workforce beginning to shuffle about the kitchen in preparation for breakfast.

Geralt sat up in bed carefully so as to not wake his sleeping companion. It was dark in the room, the early wisps of sunlight not yet strong enough to brighten the window, but Geralt could still see. 

Jaskier was splayed out on his back, chest rising and falling. One arm rested above his head whilst his other hand lay flat against his bare stomach, his shirt having ridden up in the night. His trousers, too, hung low from his fidgeting, happy trail dusting the path downwards to the peeking pubic hair of his groin, the dip of hip bones.

Geralt paused and allowed himself to linger over the sight of Jaskier’s body longer than what was strictly necessary, watching the soft motion of his chest as he breathed, admiring the pale, soft skin that was usually hidden under his waistband.

He breathed in a sigh. At such a close proximity, the strongest scent was Jaskier’s.

He was eager to either eliminate Sasha as a suspect or to interrogate the name of the offending sorcerer out of him, knowing that obtaining that information would be vital to the complicated process of breaking the curse.

Geralt climbed out of bed with the excuse of no longer being tired, moving quietly over to the writing desk so he could watch out the window for any incoming patrons. 

It was too early for many residents to be out in the streets, but after five minutes or so a travelling cart rolled past the window, its driver covered up by his hood.

The clopping of the horses’ hooves broke Jaskier out from his sleep, exhaling out through his nose before he broke into a silent yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He realised pretty fast his pants needed hoiking back up, sleepy as he found Geralt next, a statue by the window.

He went to ask him what it was about the dirt road outside that had captured his interest, but the words caught painfully in his throat, reminding him of the previous day's events. He shifted up onto his elbows instead, fringe cow licked up off his forehead.

Geralt turned his head slightly in Jaskier’s direction when he heard him wake up, able to see him in the corner of his vision. 

“Hmm,” he hummed in the place of a greeting, eyes falling back on the window. He was quiet a few more moments before he spoke again. “There might be a contract a few towns over,” he informed. “Once all is said and done here, we’ll head that way.”

Whether or not they were able to lift the curse quickly, they’d need funding soon.

Jaskier nodded despite Geralt's back being to him. He didn't think Sasha was going to have the answers Geralt wanted. He wasn’t quite sure how hopeful he felt about the prospect of fixing the predicament. Jaskier had heard of curses being broken in the past, but he had also met plenty of folk who spent the rest of their lives inflicted by their wickedness. 

He could only trust in Geralt to make sure he fell into that first category. 

He got up out of bed, coming over to the window so he, too, could look out. _'WE CAN GO'_ he wrote into the condensation on the lower panes of the window, writing the next sentence a little smaller to try and fit it all onto what space there was left. _'SASHA IS INNOCENT'_

“Hm,” Geralt replied as he considered the message. Jaskier may have trusted him, but Geralt did not, and he wasn’t planning on leaving the village without at least asking the man about his possible involvement.

It felt strange to be met with silence and unfortunately Geralt was beginning to realise the effects of the curse meant he was going to be forced to speak more than he was used to if he wanted to get anything done so far as communication.

“Who else could’ve done it?” he asked, abrupt. “I can’t imagine you have very many enemies wanting to curse you.” 

Actually, Geralt could imagine it, but didn’t say as much out loud.

Jaskier leant against the wall adjacent to the window and shrugged up a shoulder.

(Freshly-retired) loudmouthed bards tended to pick up plenty irritated clientele along the way, although nothing so serious that should theoretically put Jaskier in any real mortal peril.

The only people Jaskier could think of having any real grudge against him were his family, but the ship of their connection had long since sailed. Father had told him if he left the House behind, that although he would still love him, he would never be welcomed back. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove hadn't been his identity for over a decade by then, so he saw no reason to offer the possibility up.

“Hmm. Then I don’t think we have anywhere else to start,” Geralt replied. He huffed a little sigh through his nose. He considered that they might find another sorcerer or sorceress to consult if pursuing Sasha as a lead didn’t work out, but that implied a much longer waiting time between then and getting Jaskier’s voice restored, which wasn’t what Geralt was hoping for. Not to mention, anyone with substantial experience with magic usually charged a hefty fee for their services.

Jaskier's stomach felt a little warmed by how seriously Geralt was taking breaking the curse.

Just yesterday, his entire focus had been getting out of the town as soon as possible once it became apparent his services weren't required, but now he was the one insisting to stay so that he could chase some frivolous lead.

Although having a firm knowledge that Geralt indeed did have the full range emotions other humans would claim he lacked, Jaskier still flip-flopped back and forth as to whether he was someone as important to Geralt as Geralt was to him. Jaskier cared for Geralt with an unwavering deepness he'd never felt for anyone before, his feelings weaving their way through every love ballad he'd ever written since their meeting.

He had long since accepted the blight of his unrequited love, but the whole situation was blurring lines Jaskier had thought were cast in stone.

Jaskier reached out to touch Geralt's arm, wanting to express his gratitude.

Geralt’s eyes fell back to Jaskier, and Jaskier smiled at him. 

Showing affection was difficult for Geralt, but Jaskier’s sweet smile had something disarming about it. Perhaps it appealed to the part of him that indulged in the idea that a Witcher could actually bring happiness to someone like Jaskier.

He allowed for the familiar, casual way that Jaskier granted him closeness to ease some of the worry and restlessness in his chest, and even brought up a hand to pat over the back of Jaskier’s palm where it lay against his arm in a firm, friendly gesture.

Geralt was trying and Jaskier just melted with fondness at Geralt's self-conscious, almost forceful pat. He could be so achingly sweet and he had no idea, his big hand feeling worn and safe. 

The moment was over too soon, Geralt not yet able to let himself linger in anything kind or pleasant for too long. He went about putting on his boots so they could go downstairs, the brightening sunrise and the smells from downstairs indicating that food would be served soon.

They went down together, the inn-keeper only just unlocking the front door upon their descent. 

Jaskier let Geralt pick the table, removing his songbook from his case automatically before putting it away again at the realisation he had nothing to write with.

The silence between them felt uncanny, Jaskier bouncing a leg to try and release some pent up energy. There were a million things he wanted to say to fill the awkwardness; jokes, reassurances, a complaint it was cold, a comment about being hungry. He tried some humming of the tune he'd been working on, but the action sent pain striking up his throat, Jaskier's hand flying up to it. He sighed, fed up as he looked around. He caught sight of the barmaid and gave her a friendly wave. 

The teenager smiled soft and smitten, coming over with less fear than she had yesterday.

Jaskier's warm smile grew once she'd approached, glancing to Geralt for his help in ordering. It was a bizarre change of pace, usually it was Jaskier doing the talking for Geralt.

Geralt was aware that he made people uncomfortable and so tried to limit his interactions with them, but supposed he couldn’t just let Jaskier handle the trivial conversations anymore.

“Two plates of whatever’s cheapest,” Geralt told the barmaid, glancing to her with a gaze that would seem less than friendly to those unfamiliar with him. “And two tankards of ale.”

The barmaid seemed surprised when it was Geralt who addressed her, her tentative agreeableness quickly shifting to unease, eyes fluttering down at his mean expression. She nodded with obedient meekness, ginger curls bouncing as she hurried away.

She didn't want to leave a Witcher waiting for any longer than was absolutely necessary, even if he kept seemingly friendly company, frightened to invoke such a creature's wrath upon herself.

Geralt paid her no mind. He had strategically picked the table that allowed him to have a full view of the tavern from his place, watching and listening for any sign of Sasha or anyone else suspicious. He disliked how even attempting a sound seemed to pain the bard, anger coming to accompany the mix of emotions swirling in his gut.

Whoever had dared to bring harm to him would surely live to regret it.

Sasha entered the tavern for his breakfast just as the barmaid was returning with a tray of their food. 

As she reached their table, Geralt stood, his attention on his target.

The suddenness of his movement frightened the barmaid and she squeaked, arms going weak in adrenaline, causing the tray to tilt and spill its contents over Jaskier's lap.

Jaskier gasped and leapt to his feet, but the ale was already seeping fast into the fabric of his clothes, globs of porridge splatting from his pant legs onto the floor.

It obviously hadn’t been Geralt’s intention to scare her, but instead of saying as much, all that left his lips was an annoyed sigh at the waste of food. 

He was confident by how frightened the girl seemed that she would have it replaced free of charge, the Witcher shooting Jaskier a look that might’ve been considered apologetic, or irritable, it was so often very hard to tell with him.

He left the mess for Jaskier to deal with, but not before grabbing an overturned tankard, placing it back on the girl’s tray. “Help my bard in cleaning up,” he told her, unable to soften his tone so instead adding, “please,” in an attempt to seem less frightening.

Perhaps that was a useless effort, because he glowered at Sasha when he again looked his way, making no attempt to hide the seriousness in his demeanor as he approached him.

The blood from the barmaid's face was drained, nodding her head in feverish terror at the monster's blunt instructions. Her words were incoherent as she finally made a gasp for air and began to babble her apologies to Jaskier.

Jaskier tried to glance around her, trapped at the table. He had wanted to work as a mediator to Geralt's confrontation with his old lover, but now he was stuck doing his best to reassure the barmaid everything was okay in his mute state, stinking of ale, his blue doublet stained with food. 

Everything had happened so fast he hadn't even the chance to enjoy the novelty of being called Geralt's bard _by_ Geralt.

On the other side of the room, Geralt had already reached Sasha, yellow eyes scorching into the smaller man.

“Sasha,” he stated. “I have business with you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting the confrontation with Sasha out the way, the pair head out of town.

Sasha did a bad job hiding his fear as Geralt stormed over. 

He had been having a good laugh at the kerfuffle, pleased to see Jaskier humiliated in such a public setting, when he’d realised it was _him_ the Witcher was bee-lining towards, that _he_ was the source of the Witcher’s agitation.

“Sasha,” the mutant growled once he’d reached him, low and serious. “I have business with you.”

"Wh- what?" stammered Sasha, caught off-guard.

“I said, _I have business with you_ ,” Geralt repeated none too patiently, stepping closer until there was only a couple feet between them. Although he did doubt that Sasha would put himself in Geralt’s sights after having Jaskier cursed, Geralt supposed there was the possibility he may be dumber than he looked.

Regularly, Geralt wouldn’t have cared about confronting someone in such a public space, but this particular situation was sensitive, and Geralt was worried that Sasha might make Jaskier’s preference for men known if he was pressed too sharply. It would be better to talk privately.

“Come outside with me.” His tone left little room for debate.

Sasha gulped, the colour draining from his face.

Thankfully, the inn was pretty spare due it being still early, but those that were occupying the space had their entire focus shifted in the span of thirty seconds from the clumsy barmaid to the six foot Witcher currently squaring up to an unlucky patron.

No one dared intervene, Jaskier still wrapped up trying to calm down a flustered teenager without the use of his vocal chords, unable to come to Sasha's rescue.

Sasha's heart thumped fast, legs feeling like lead as he was jerkily escorted outside. He had never thought in a million eras Julian would ever put him in harm's way, if anything, Julian _owed_ Sasha after what had happened back in Winneburg, one of the very reasons he had gone out of his way to embarrass the other man yesterday. 

"What does he want?" he asked Geralt breathlessly once they were out of the inn. He understood Jaskier had all the cards in the situation, almost a little betrayed.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the man. “ _He_ wants nothing,” he clarified. “I am the one suspicious of you.”

He eyed him up to gauge Sasha’s reaction, then elaborated,

“A curse was placed over Jaskier that has stolen his voice. Your lovers’ quarrel yesterday morning has me thinking you might know something about that.” He made sure to lower his voice so that his words couldn’t be overheard.

Sasha's eyebrows were together, confusion outweighing the fear for a few brief moments before the reality of a Witcher's furious glare upon him snapped him back to the present.

The man's natural boldness was water vapour, but Geralt knew nothing of Sasha's personality, of how unlike himself he was behaving, tail tucked between his legs, submissive and clawing to say the right thing to end the confrontation.

"A curse?" he repeated, skimming over Geralt's mention of their co-called 'quarrel'. 

Sasha wasn't looking to out himself again either, Geralt's use of 'lover' simply informed him that he had been right in his assumption they were sleeping together, but that notion was not his current, primary focus. 

"Gods, is he okay?" Sasha's concern seemed genuine, a flip from the scathing, venomous treatment he'd given Jaskier yesterday.

Geralt continued to glare, but the genuine concern passing the man’s face told Geralt that he was likely innocent as Jaskier said.

That opened the door for a whole new set of problems.

“Hm. He will be,” Geralt replied, seeming to ease off his intimidation as he became less convinced of his involvement.

“I need to find the person responsible to lift it. If it isn’t _you_ ,” He scowled just in case he’d judged him incorrectly, “then it must be someone who knows him well enough to go through the trouble of cursing him.”

Sasha wiped sweaty palms against the linen of his shirt. "Well, good luck with that. It's certainly a long list," he commented with a nervous chuckle, his laughter breaking off almost as soon as it had begun when Geralt's face remained stony and impassive. "Uhm... well... a curse is an expensive option to pursue. One of Julian's extended family members, perhaps?"

Geralt may have been unimpressed by the man’s attempt at humor, but hummed at the suggestion that the curse could’ve been commissioned by a family member. He hadn’t known that Jaskier came from a particularly wealthy family; it was an interesting suggestion.

The tavern’s door swung open and Jaskier strode out. He had finally broken away from the barmaid to join the pair outside, having done his best to wipe the food stains from his clothes, joining them on the tavern’s front porch.

Geralt glanced to Jaskier and Jaskier shot Geralt a look, unhappy with his dirty tactics to get Sasha alone, even if the incident hadn’t exactly been pre-mediated.

"So he finally joins us." Sasha's entire body language changed once Jaskier was there, a hand going to his hip, tone returning to its aloof bite (his heart, however, remained fast and anxious.) "Your Witcher here tells me you've been stupid enough to go and get yourself cursed."

Geralt’s glare returned to Sasha as he changed his demeanor and insulted Jaskier to his face. He was surprised that Jaskier had bedded someone so two-faced and spineless. He decided that though Sasha was innocent, he greatly disliked him.

“Questioning the idiot was as useless as you implied. Gather your things, bard,” Geralt said, ignoring Sasha and his mean-spirited commentary completely.

Jaskier was offering up to Sasha a withered, sarcastic look before Geralt spoke up.

 _Are you pulling my leg?_ he thought in Geralt’s direction, eyes betraying as much to his companion, although it soon mellowed out to an _I told you so._

Sasha remained silent. He refused for Jaskier to have any knowledge of his worry for his well being, knowing prose was his entire life. He was more focused on getting the scary Witcher to stop breathing down his neck like some vicious guard dog so that he could return to his morning meal.

Jaskier and Sasha shared a final, unreadable look before the two sides broke apart.

As Jaskier and Geralt went back inside, Jaskier gestured to their table now laid with fresh bowls of porridge. There was no way Jaskier was letting them leave until they'd eaten.

Geralt wasn’t feeling particularly hungry now that there was a new lead to follow, but didn’t protest as they went back to their isolated table for breakfast.

Once they sat back down, he tilted his head in Sasha’s direction, telling Jaskier flatly, “You have terrible taste in men.”

Jaskier's head snapped up and Geralt would have heard a surprised snort without the magic binding Jaskier silent. He had never imagined, nor even the ability to comprehend in his mind, such a collection of words to ever leave Geralt's pouty lips, especially not aimed at Jaskier himself.

Was this a fever dream? That couldn't be a real thing that the Geralt of Rivia had just uttered. 

Jaskier was visibly, thoroughly delighted. He sparkled bright just like he did before he began a long and winding anecdote related to whatever throwaway line Geralt cast him, the stars dancing in his eyes extinguishing as he realised that no, he couldn't share with Geralt the story of how he and Sasha met.

It felt even sadder that Jaskier could have been entertaining Geralt for years with all these unedited tales and had only just become aware of it after he'd been cursed.

Geralt was silently disappointed to see the flash of Jaskier’s typical jovial attitude appear and disappear as quickly as it had arrived, but he supposed it was only natural given the circumstances.

He wanted to reassure Jaskier that it would only be a matter of time before he figured out how to lift the curse. He wanted to tell him not to despair, that he would work tirelessly until his voice was returned to him. 

Alas, vocalising his care and concern was difficult, so instead Geralt just decided internally that he would try to cheer him up when he could. He didn’t typically concern himself with such things, but seeing Jaskier so thoroughly miserable tugged at his rusty heartstrings.

They ate in silence.

⁂

Geralt sent Jaskier upstairs to collect the rest of their things and get prepared to set off on the road again whilst he headed to the stables to put Roach in her tack. It was a brisk morning and they should set off soon so that the exercise would keep Jaskier warm.

He was digging through one of her saddle bags when he heard Jaskier finally emerge from the inn, still rummaging as Jaskier reached them.

Jaskier reached into the stall to smooth a hand over Roach's snout, smiling as he was greeted with a gentle bump. The wetness of his beer-damp pants was still uncomfortable, it certainly did not help with the chill, but Jaskier was already resigned to the fact he was going to have to tough it out and wait until he could dry them in front of the fire they were going to light later that evening.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called over his shoulder.

Jaskier squeezed into the stall with his usual eagerness at having his name called, although unlike when he was usual, he was silent in waiting for what Geralt wanted, rather than asking.

Geralt had found what he was looking for and was holding it out to Jaskier: a wooden ink pen and an unusually thick piece of parchment that was folded onto itself many times. The pen’s surface was carved with delicate depictions of different herbs and creatures, the parchment embossed with the image of a snarling wolf similar to that on Geralt’s necklace.

“These were gifts. From Vesemir,” Geralt told, having mentioned the man to Jaskier in passing before. They were for the purpose of writing down important information for hunts, but Geralt had long since found both items useless, and hadn’t remembered that he had even had them until that morning.

Jaskier took the pen first, having never seen such a thing outside of the marble fountain pen he had used during his schooling, sold long ago during desperate times. He admired the beautiful craftsmanship, thinking that whoever was responsible had a lot of talent indeed.

“The pen never runs out of ink and the parchment can be reused endlessly,” Geralt explained.

Jaskier’s head snapped up almost comically, his fervent wonder igniting into disbelief, although there was no real heat behind it. He smacked Geralt's arm and snatched the parchment, moving Geralt around so that he could use the broadness of his back as a rest, scribbling furiously for a good minute.

Finished, Jaskier shoved the paper into Geralt's calloused hand to read.

' _ARE YOU PULLING MY LEG GERALT You have had these this entire time and never once thought to let me use it! You watch me waste all my coin on parchment and ink and quills and YOU HAD THIS MAGICAL FOUNTAIN PEN THIS WHOLE TIME GODS YOU ARE UNBELIEVABLE_ '

The edge of Geralt’s mouth twitched up in a barely noticeable smile as he read the note. 

It was nice to be able to know what Jaskier wanted to say in full again.

“Hmm,” he said, handing the parchment back to him. “It was given to me nearly a hundred years ago now. I forgot I had it.”

Geralt knew that he still probably wouldn’t have given it to him if he had remembered, never one to offer gifts unprompted, but didn’t mention that.

Jaskier shook his head as he took the parchment back. It pressed it in half and re-opened it, amazed by how all of the words he had just written were gone, ink barely dried just seconds ago. There wasn't even the crease where Jaskier had folded it, just a smooth, cream page. It was a writer's dream.

He manhandled Geralt again to write a quick, _'Apologies, I forgot you were but a forgetful old biddy,_ ' already grinning as he showed Geralt his quip.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier after reading what he’d written. “Hm,” he replied, grabbing Roach’s reins and beginning to lead her out of the stables.

Jaskier's expression indicated a silent laugh at his reaction so Geralt purposely bumped his broader shoulder against Jaskier’s as he passed him, playfulness bubbling just beneath his grumpy pout. 

He let the bard catch up to him before he spoke again. “Sasha told me that your family could be responsible for the curse,” he said. “Tell me about that.”

The lightness in Jaskier’s attitude dampened once he was met with such an unexpected question.

He tried not to show his hesitation. Instead he gestured his new pen and paper towards Geralt, then the path they were headed down. It wasn't exactly like he could write and walk at the same time without it turning into a jumbled mess.

Geralt sighed at the inconvenience, stopping in the road and turning away from him so he could again use his back as a flat surface to write upon.

Jaskier scratched as fast as he could, but it was still taking longer than he had anticipated to write out his full thoughts.

Geralt sighed after a while of waiting, his patience more often than not tethered by an angel's hair. He looked to Roach in his irritation

She seemed to agree, whinnying and stomping one of her front hooves down into the dirt path lightly, eager to move after being cooped up in the stable for the majority of the previous two days.

Geralt petted a hand down the side of her neck soothingly. “Hurry up, Jaskier,” he urged.

Jaskier felt a hot flash of frustration. He was writing as fast as he could! Geralt was the one who had asked him about his family, after all, if he couldn't wait for him to write it out then he should stop interrogating a mute.

He underlined one of the sentences and pushed the parchment into Geralt's broad chest with a quick scowl. It wasn't like Jaskier was enjoying the inconvenience either.

Geralt took the paper back when it was thrust into his chest, reading the message quickly.

 _'Stop being sulky, it is not my fault a mage stole my beautiful chords. As for my family being responsible, I highly doubt it, it's been over a decade and they would have surely sent someone before now if they had any nefarious schemes -and_ _I'm writing as fast as I can, you bore!_ _'_

He handed it back out to Jaskier.

“Hm. We’ll need to hire a sorcerer ourselves, then,” he told.

 _Like we're going to be able to afford that_ , thought Jaskier. 

Geralt resumed his walk in the direction of the bridge leading out of town and gestured for Jaskier to follow. He was relieved to be back on the road, ready for whatever contract was waiting for him. They needed a hefty purse to rely on before Geralt could figure out a course of action for breaking Jaskier’s curse.

Behind him, Jaskier paused a moment to stuff Geralt's gifts into his bag. He was left hurrying again to catch up with Geralt and Roach, the pair already halfway across the bridge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travel is tiring Jaskier quicker than usual. Geralt and he share unspoken admissions over the campfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,
> 
> thank you for all your sweet words, kudos and subscriptions
> 
> hope u enjoy this new chapter 
> 
> -aiya & LA x

They walked in relative silence, only stopping for the occasional break along the way.

Jaskier was caught off guard by how _long_ the journey onwards felt when he was unable to fill the air with all the thoughts bouncing around inside his head. The drag of his boots was laborious, his bag heavy and aching on his shoulder, the trapped words leaving him agitated.

He wanted to comment that he should probably invest in buying another horse again, so that he and Geralt could travel a little faster, but of course couldn’t, trying to busy himself thinking of lyrics to his new tune instead. He quickly found out that the task was difficult when he couldn't hum and sing aloud.

Geralt stole glances of Jaskier every so often, watching him out of the corner of his eye from his raised position on Roach. It felt wrong to see him so upset without hearing any complaints about it.

Geralt had thought that with this stretch of travel, Jaskier’s affliction would be a blessing in disguise. As fond as he’d grown of the bard, Geralt often preferred the quiet over being subjected to near constant song revisions and lute strumming, and yet as they left the last signs of civilization behind them, venturing into the forests over well-worn merchant roads, Geralt found that silence with Jaskier around just didn’t feel natural.

He felt annoyance rise in his chest, but not at Jaskier, rather that he couldn’t break the damn curse faster.

They trudged on.

⁂

Early evening, Geralt climbed down from Roach to lead her off of the path they’d been following, into surrounding woodland.

“We’ll camp here for tonight,” Geralt told Jaskier, voice a little gravelly from disuse.

Jaskier nodded. He followed after him, looking about the clearing Geralt had chosen for a suitable looking tree to brush the twigs and leaves from underneath and collapse under. The forest still throbbed dully with life, the orange sky bleeding through winding branches above.

It was bizarre, but Jaskier felt tireder than usual despite the assumption (at least, on Jaskier's part) that talking the whole way should, theoretically, burn more energy than remaining silent.

Yet there he was, the familiar burn of his feet accompanied by a deep, mental exhaustion he was unused to. Often, Jaskier would still have a little reserve left to aid Geralt in setting up a fire, set up their bedrolls from Roach's back, perhaps even do a little lute playing whilst they waited for dinner to cook over flame, but tonight, Jaskier barely had the energy to sit down and remove the case from his back.

He removed his flask from his bag, drinking generously, the river water inside still fresh and cold.

Geralt went about relieving Roach of her gear whilst Jaskier settled behind him. He left her to graze on the soft grass and quietly busied himself with clearing a space for their bedrolls, laying them closer to one another than was strictly necessary with the excuse that it would be a chilly night. He gathered wood and cast it alight with the sign of Igni. 

Done with the camp’s preparation, his attention refocused Jaskier’s way. He didn’t know how to uplift his mood; the bard was usually such enthusiastic company that he really had no experience in doing so.

Perhaps he’d feel better if he ate.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt said and then strode off deeper into the forest.

Jaskier watched him go, stationed at the tree a few minutes more before he moved to sit by the fire. He sighed at the feeling of warmth against his damp trousers and gazed upon the flames, going deep into thought as he fretted over how the heavens he and Geralt were supposed to go about this.

He was educated enough to know he had two options; either perform the pacifying condition of the curse, if one existed (which Jaskier highly doubted) or track down the original mage to reverse it.

The Northern Kingdoms were vast. Tracking down a single person, not getting into the fact they were a powerful magic user with access to portals and glimmer disguises, was going to be rather impossible.

Jaskier was filled with anxious confusion over what he had done to piss someone off this badly. Had they really despised his singing so badly? Perhaps he had offended someone included in one of his tales? It was hard to believe considering most of them revolved around Geralt.

He had had his promiscuous stints, it was true, but it wasn’t like Jaskier had the allure to break anyone’s heart so badly it would spiral them into paying hand over fist to inflict such cruel revenge.

Geralt returned less than an hour later carrying the carcass of a rabbit in his hand, already skinned and gutted and ready to be cooked.

Jaskier saw Geralt in his periphery and gave the Witcher a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He smoothed his new, magical parchment open, using his songbook as a rest to scribe, _'Rabbit again? and here I was fancying poultry'_

He lifted it to show Geralt.

Geralt was working quickly to get the rabbit skewered, only looking up from the task when Jaskier’s parchment was held up for him.

“Hmm,” he grumbled in reply, propping the carcass over the fire and brushing dirt off his broad palms. “Rabbit’s all that’s on the menu ‘til we get some coin.” 

Which, Geralt hoped, wouldn’t be long. 

It was about another day’s ride to the village they were traveling to if Geralt pushed their limits and they cut down on breaks. He wasn’t sure that would be possible, though, with how tired today’s travel had seemed to leave Jaskier.

At Geralt's flat tone, Jaskier began to write 'I was joking' before changing his mind. He flipped the paper over, filing it into his book of sonnets and setting it at his feet, pen atop.

He patted the ground adjacent, waiting for Geralt to join him before he produced a little gunny sack from his case. He untied the string holding it closed, bringing it up to his nose to enjoy the sweet smell before he reached inside and produced a dried apricot. He popped it into his mouth.

Geralt took comfort in the familiarity of sitting with him by the fireside, the sunset painted sky beginning to fade and allow little pinpricks of starlight to begin twinkling through. Something about it still felt off without Jaskier’s voice there to accompany the rustling of the leaves and cricket chirping, though.

Jaskier offered the bag of aprictors towards Geralt to take one. When he was refused, he held them out more insistently.

Geralt sighed, giving in and taking a few from the bag extended to him. He typically didn’t enjoy sweet things, but he didn’t complain as he popped one of the treats into his mouth.

They both looked back to the fire.

Geralt only moved from him when the roasting rabbit needed to be turned over the flames, using one of his knives to split it in two once it was cooked through.

He typically split their share of whatever he hunted equally, but that night he was feeling particularly sympathetic towards Jaskier, so he cut the bard a bigger portion of it than he did for himself, handing it over to his companion.

Jaskier didn't notice due to the dim light of the fire, digging in and polishing it off to the bone, tossing said bones back into the fire to burn like Geralt had taught him, as to not attract carnivorous wildlife in the night

Dinner finished, Jaskier tuned and [played](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJh865acA-U) his lute for a little while Geralt took to sitting with his back up against the trunk of a nearby tree, using his whetstone to sharpen the blade of his silver sword.

Jaskier grew fed up with plucking melodies without the lyrics to accompany it. He reached for his parchment instead, standing up and sitting close beside Geralt so he could read better (or at least, that's the excuse Jaskier allowed himself.)

Geralt just kept at his steady work, only looking to Jaskier’s writing once the page was tilted in his direction to read. His mutations made it easy to make out the message, even in the dim light.

 _'Does my preference of bedmates really not disturb you?'_ he had written.

Jaskier had been pondering about it after he’d realised Geralt was still treating him the same, if not with more thoughtfulness, since Sasha had come bouncing over to their table talking of how Jaskier had ruined his life.

“No,” Geralt responded, golden eyes returning to his blade as he sharpened its edge, the sound of the motion joining with the crackling of their fire. “Even I have bedded men before. It’s not as uncommon as people would like you to believe.”

Geralt had never been one to care what people got up to in their private lives, and he viewed the stigma surrounding such behaviors to be nothing more than humans fearing what they did not understand, as they tended to do.

Jaskier's entire expression betrayed how utterly gobsmacked he was at the revelation.

He was (obviously) aware, after his twenty seven years experience, men who shared his affliction came from all walks of life, sometimes those one would least expect, but Jaskier would have never have imagined _Geralt_ would turn out to be one of those people.

He was honestly mostly amazed Geralt had managed to keep it from him. 

During all of the pining he had suffered throughout the years, Jaskier would have never have guessed in a million dynasties he would ever have even the remotest shot of having what he truly wanted with Geralt.

He recalled when they first met, when Jaskier had cautiously flirted with Geralt to test the waters. He had received nothing but a well-practised thump to his stomach in return and accepted Geralt's tastes were firmly rooted in the opposite sex.

 _'WHAT'_ he wrote in big letters once his brain was working again.

Geralt glanced back to the parchment and huffed through his nose in what could loosely be described as a laugh. He could almost physically hear the shocked warble of Jaskier’s tone through the big letters, finding his surprise amusing. 

He simply looked at Jaskier and shrugged his shoulders in response.

He hadn’t slept with any men for a number of years as encountering a willing partner was difficult in his line of work and he generally preferred the company of women, but it wasn’t something that Geralt felt the need to be ashamed of.

His comfort surrounding his sexuality didn’t necessarily make it easier to admit that he found _Jaskier_ rather attractive, though, off-put by the fact that his attraction towards the bard wasn’t solely physical.

He smacked Geralt's arm, going back to scribbling. 

Jaskier thought of all the unnecessary sneaking around he had had to do during their travels to relieve his needs, careful to keep that part of himself as far away from Geralt as possible so as to not disrupt their precious friendship.

He raised a brow at his friend as he provided the paper for him to read. This new information was dangerously close to sparking new hope within him, trying his best to smoother it. _'No wonder you understood what was happening when Sasha approached us. You made me fret I had been too obvious, but it turns out you're just a pouf, too'_

The corner of Geralt’s mouth tipped up in a faint smile after reading the lighthearted insult.

“I only knew because he didn’t call you by your name,” Geralt said. He hoped to further reassure Jaskier that his interest in men was not overtly obvious as he feared. He set the sword aside, pleased with its sharpness, picking up the other one to give it the same treatment, “with affairs like that, people tend to use aliases.”

The appearance of Geralt's smile, no matter how faint, had Jaskier grinning, too.

He turned over the parchment, seeing no reason to keep Geralt in the dark about his identity since there was no threat of anyone overhearing. _'It wasn't an alias, Jaskier is just my performance name, my real name is Julian’_

Geralt hummed in reply.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he would have a stage name. Geralt supposed that he never had reason to ask for Jaskier’s full name since the moniker he used was so recognisable that an identifying last name was unnecessary.

He thought that ‘Julian’ was an awfully common name for someone as unique and atypical as the bard was.

“‘Jaskier’ suits you better,” he eventually settled on saying, a little more talkative than usual in his effort to lift his spirits.

It seemed Jaskier not being able to fill every single waking moment of his time with Geralt blabbering was having huge benefits previously unconsidered. Maybe Jaskier should make the effort to be quiet more often if it resulted in getting to have a more two-sided discussion with Geralt, rather than just being tolerantly, barely listened to.

The corners of Jaskier's eyes crinkled with his smile. _'I agree, that's why I picked it. It's an elvish word.'_

Geralt was relieved to see Jaskier smiling and looking like himself again. Though he had only looked at him for a moment, the image of the flickering flames of their campfire reflected in Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes remained stuck in his mind.

“Hm.” Geralt knew some elvish, but it had been years since he’d utilized it and he couldn’t recall what it would translate to. Empowered slightly by the ease he was able to speak to Jaskier with, he indulged his curiosity as he inquired, “What is its meaning?”

Jaskier was trying not to preen too obviously, managing to, but barely, only just, thriving on being gifted such focused attention from Geralt.

 _'Buttercup,'_ he answered, the loop of his pen sweeping and delicate.

“Hmm.” Geralt said in reply, letting his gaze linger for a moment on his pretty handwriting. It was well-practised cursive, a style of handwriting taught by and to nobility, only perfected through hundreds of drills.

He wondered how he’d chosen that name, or where he’d learned to write so beautifully. Part of him thought that ornate cursive would come naturally to Jaskier, who seemed to be talented in most art forms, but he knew he must’ve practiced it carefully over an extended time. Perhaps it was taught at bardic college.

Geralt allowed himself another brief glance to Jaskier’s face before his eyes fell back to his sword, seemingly done with talking for the evening as he slipped back into a thoughtful silence.

He realised that he actually knew very little about his companion. 

Geralt couldn’t recall if he ever learned where he was from originally, and was unsure if he had been native to Posada, where they had first met. He also realised he had never inquired about how he came to be a traveling troubadour. Geralt supposed that since he’d met Jaskier when he was only a boy, barely nineteen if Geralt remembered correctly, his past seemed like unimportant or uninteresting information at the time.

It was starting to seem more interesting to him now, but that he tried not to think about.

Jaskier put away his song book and pen once he had recognised the conversation was over. 

He decided to use the lull as an excuse to watch Geralt's muscles flex for a while, his capable hands working steady and efficient, before he retired to his bed spreads. 

Jaskier had managed to stay up a little longer than he'd anticipated with how tired he'd been upon their arrival, settling onto his back and looking up at the night's sky. He was much more comfortable now the fabric of his clothes were dry, hands rested loose against his stomach, lute nearby, and when Geralt moved into the space beside him, he felt comforted by his closeness.

It was chilly enough to warrant Jaskier inching a little closer so they were touching, thinking of how the once brisk spring was beginning to ease off and he wouldn't be able to get away with such closeness until the autumn.

Jaskier was met with the desire to reach out and rest a hand on Geralt's waist, press his nose to his jaw, but didn't. He kept his hands firmly to himself as always, just letting himself enjoy Geralt's steady presence instead, the smell of dying embers.

Geralt allowed Jaskier to scoot closer, simply closing his eyes and pretending not to notice whilst also, internally, enjoying it very much.

He liked that he could help keep Jaskier warm under the cool chill blowing through the forest, that his presence put Jaskier at ease, whereas for others, it was frightening. 

It gave Geralt an odd sense of satisfaction deep in his gut, like he was fulfilling an important task just by helping to keep him mildly comfortable. The curse hanging over them kept Geralt from feeling like that task was fully reached, however, but it only spurred his determination to reverse it.

He fell asleep to the sound of the fire crackling it’s last lease of life, the accompanying, faint sound of Jaskier’s beating heart helping lull Geralt under.

⁂

Geralt had them back on the road at the crack of dawn, Jaskier yawning into the back of his hand as he plodded behind Roach.

Despite being worried, noticing how Jaskier seemed to tire easier than he typically did as the hours ticked on, Geralt still insisted on fewer breaks than usual to allow them to get to the next village quicker.

A little past midday and Jaskier was counting his footsteps to keep himself grounded. Roach had managed to trot further ahead than usual and Jaskier tried to summon the energy to catch up to the pair.

Before he could prompt himself to march on, Geralt took pity on him and pulled Roach’s reins to slow her to a stop.

Jaskier was able to catch up fairly easily now they were at a standstill, looking up at Geralt in puzzlement once he arrived.

“Jaskier,” was all Geralt said, speaking for the first time in hours as he extended a hand to him.

Jaskier just looked at Geralt's hand a few moments, exhausted brain offering up the solution he was being handed someone, water perhaps, and went to take it. When his hand just clasped Geralt's gloved one instead, he became even more confused, looking up at his friend again with another expression of tired questioning.

Geralt sighed at his confusion as if it was an annoyance even though it wasn’t, explaining, “you’re slowing us down. Get up here.”

He removed a foot from one of the stirrups so Jaskier could climb up with the assistance of Geralt’s hand to steady and pull him up. Geralt was sure that Roach could do without the excess weight, but she was a strong and resilient horse that had braved much worse conditions, so Geralt allowed himself to make the exception, usually not even letting Jaskier ride Roach when her saddle was empty.

Jaskier's confusion turned to surprise, but did as Geralt instructed.

He let himself be pulled up onto Roach's rump, swinging over his leg and getting settled. He patted Geralt's bicep as a way of expressing his thanks, arms moving to encompass Geralt's broad waist before Roach set back off trotting. 

His body sagged with a mute, heavy sigh of relief, a gentle puff of warm air expanding on the back of Geralt's neck. He tried to fight the shut of his eyes, but they ended up slipping closed anyway after twenty minutes or so, cheek smushed up in between Geralt's shoulder blades, resting.

Jaskier was utterly drained, wondering if it had anything to do with the curse. It was comforting being able to rest so close to Geralt, even side-by-side on their bedrolls it was nothing like this.

Geralt initially felt tense as Jaskier pressed up against his back, but as the minutes passed he relaxed once again, allowing himself to drop his guard and enjoy the feeling of Jaskier’s body against his. 

He didn’t really understand why Jaskier had never feared him, or why he had always been so open and giving with his companionship, understood even less why he himself was unable to reciprocate the casual closeness without first being prompted, but for the moment he allowed himself to let his overthinking go.

They were able to cover ground a lot faster without having to go at Jaskier’s speed, reaching their destination with plenty of time before the sun dipped off behind the horizon.

Jaskier straightened back up and opened his eyes when he felt Roach slow her pace, peaking around Geralt's arm to see they were approaching the entrance to the little farming village Geralt had spoken of getting work from. 

With its smaller size, there would no doubt be an empty room for a cheap price. Jaskier secretly hoped Geralt would only have the money in his purse for the one room again.

Geralt grunted when he felt Jaskier straighten behind him, readjusting his hold on Roach’s reins to keep them steady,

They received a few stares from the couple of villagers within viewing distance, but Geralt just rode past them and stopped to look at some parchment nailed up beside the entrance. It was an official contract for the Necrophages Geralt had heard folk talking about in the last town, but it was so old and faded that Geralt would check to see if it was still unfulfilled. 

“We’ll go to the inn,” he said, “see if I can get some work.”

Jaskier nodded against his shoulder blade and Geralt guided Roach further inside.


	6. INTERLUDE I

**╔══════════════╗**

**FOUR MONTHS LATER**

**╚══════════════╝**


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of trying to find a solution, Geralt and Jaskier are on the road again when an intruder enters their camp as they sleep.

Being a mute, it turned out, wasn’t all bad once Jaskier had gotten used to it.

He still missed being able to express his thoughts freely, sure, missed being able to perform and banter flirtatiously with everyone in sight, but shutting up for once had given Jaskier a new perspective on life.

He saw a lot of things differently; the people he’d meet as they moved from town to town, the winding roads across fields, through forests and up mountains. Most of all there was Geralt _,_ who just the day before Jaskier's voice was taken from him, he would have sworn to know inside out.

Geralt, who had brought Jaskier before magically trained healers, mages, and alchemists alike, paying pouch after pouch of hard earned coin fruitlessly. Geralt, who had gone on several ridiculously dangerous hunts for rare ingredients to make some newly taught potion that might hold a chance at ridding Jaskier of his affliction, all of which panned out to be wild useless goose chases. Geralt, who seemed to have made it his life’s mission to return Jaskier’s voice at the expense of himself, working tirelessly towards a solution Jaskier was becoming more and more unsure even existed.

Jaskier repeatedly insisted that Geralt’s efforts, although deeply appreciated, weren’t necessary _all the time_ , that it was okay to take a break every now and again, but Geralt, of course, firmly disagreed with the notion. 

He was a Witcher. Witchers weren't supposed to take breaks, they were supposed to be capable of reversing all kinds of curses and magical attacks and Geralt was failing him. Jaskier should have been freed of this insufferable nightmare moons ago. Being unable to do something as simple as restore the voice of a bard, _his_ bard, it drove Geralt to a madness that had no end, consuming his every waking moment.

The original novelty of Geralt’s drive on Jaskier’s behalf was gone. He wanted things to go back to how they were. Geralt had always been uptight, but the lack of so much as a stop for breath was beginning to weigh heavy on them both. 

Travel was always tiring, but this crusade was especially exhausting.

They both hoped it would end soon.

⁂

The Northern Kingdoms were in the midst of its summer when Jaskier was awoken abruptly by the sounds of Roach gently whinning, clopping down one, heavy hoof.

It was the early hours of the morning and Jaskie was disoriented by the sudden awakening, although unalarmed. He sat up with bleary eyes. Geralt was unstirred beside him, their bedrolls flush against one other as they had remained all summer. 

Swallowing, a yawn half formed on Jaskier’s face, he looked around for whatever woodland creature she was making a fuss about.

Jaskier froze up and a chill went down his spine.

A lone wolf, broad and grey, stood a mere stone's throw away from his and Geralt's feet. Its hackles were raised, muzzle bared and yellow eyes hungry. Its thick tail swept from side to side with malicious intent and its claws were curled into the grass.

Jaskier instinctively tried to gasp Geralt's name, unable to take his eyes off the fearsome beast. He reached out for the first piece of Geralt he could find; his leg.

Geralt jolted awake and shot out an instinctive hand that grabbed Jaskier’s wrist.

It took the Witcher mere milliseconds to assess the danger from his position and his initial, tight grip on Jaskier’s arm loosened to a firm hold instead. He inched up into sitting, slowing his movements so as to not alarm the wolf.

He began to carefully move to his knees, but the wolf growled in warning, and Geralt stilled again.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, hushed and rumbly. “Get behind me. Slowly.”

Geralt cursed himself for getting them into such a situation. He was, in honesty, rather alarmed that a wolf had managed to encroach into their camp, let alone sneak so close to them without having sensed it. 

Jaskier tried to control his fear, to do as Geralt instructed, but was struggling to get over his initial shock, hand still gripped tight on Geralt's thigh. His eyes had yet to leave the animal.

“Jaskier,” repeated Geralt in a whisper, firmer.

Jaskier was prompted to action. He shifted back on his bottom and the wolf snarled, teeth gnashing.

He froze up again, and as the wolf finally pounced, he let out a silent squeak as Roach whinned behind them, this time with more panic.

Geralt used his hold on Jaskier’s wrist to tug him aside, lunging to intercept the attack before the wolf’s aim landed. With no time to grab one of his nearby swords, Geralt took the beast by its scruff and tackled it with all his weight, sending them both tumbling.

Although stupid and not what Geralt would have done had he been alone, putting as much distance between Jaskier and its jaws as possible overrode any other option.

The wolf didn’t so much as whimper as it hit the forest floor hard, Geralt’s first indication the creature was something more sinister that it appeared, still snapping furiously in Jaskier’s direction as it tried to writhe out of his hold.

Gerlat’s eyes widened in realisation. This wasn’t some hungry animal desperate for food. It was after blood. _Jaskier’s_ blood.

Geralt tactics changed. This wasn’t something he was going to be able to scare away, using all of his strength to try and pin it down instead, keep it from its target.

Jaskier watched from the bedrolls as Geralt and the beast wrestled around in the dirt, trying to get the upper hand on one another. Roach continued to complain at the ruckus and the noise finally jumped Jaskier into action, fumbling for the handle of one of Geralt’s swords, trying to unsheath it.

The wolf continued to snarl and writhe, volatile as Geralt struggled to keep it down. One of its claws caught Geralt’s face, razor sharp, too sharp to be any normal claw, as it sliced his skin, red filling the vision of his left side.

Geralt grunted a pained noise. He managed to free a hand, trying to position himself to use one of the Signs to regain control when Jaskier suddenly intervened, pumped up on adrenaline as he drove Geralt's sword deep into its side. 

The wolf howled, sounding more angry than pained at it was impaled.

Geralt snatched the hilt of the blade as Jaskier released it. He tore the silver through its ribcage, Geralt using the momentum to get back onto his feet.

Jaskier’s chest heaved as the the wolf's black blood spilled everywhere.

Geralt kicked the beast over with his boot, breathing only slightly laboured. Its blood filled Geralt’s nostrils, but the scent was without fear, its weak and frantic movements still channeled towards trying to reach Jaskier rather than any effort to crawl away. 

It was no ordinary wolf, still panting and snarling as it spasmed and collapsed, body failing.

Geralt didn’t waste a moment more. He stood over the dying animal and drove the point of his blade through its throat swiftly, relieving whatever it had once been of its suffering.

Jaskier was at Geralt’s side before it could take its final breath, taking his bloody face in his hands to try and get a better look at the damage.

Geralt was still on high alert. His eyes scanned the forest for any more wolves even as Jaskier’s kind hands touched him, only garnering his attention once his heightened senses couldn’t pick up anything else lurking in the shadows.

“I’m fine,” grunted Geralt.

He was clearly not fine and Jaskier's exasperated, worried expression indicated he thought as much.

Geralt’s blurred vision was more focused on Jaskier than himself. His eyes swept over his body, relieved he was unharmed. Though injured, the stinging and throbbing of a fresh wound was nothing new to Geralt. 

The curved gash was carved over his left brow and down his cheekbone. It trickled thickly with blood and Jaskier fretted. 

He got Geralt sat down and fetched his flask, tilting the Witcher’s head to the side to rinse the blood out his eye and get a better idea of the severity of the wound.

Geralt allowed it, if only to let silently take comfort in having Jaskier so close whilst he allowed an extra moment to collect himself.

The slice was deep, but Geralt’s accelerated healing had already slowed the bleeding, only a few streams of blood coming to streak his face again once the initial mess had been removed. 

Jaskier wanted to scold him: What the heavens his plan had been exactly, tackling a crazed wolf with his bare hands? 

He was a little surprised a wolf had managed to get so close to their camp in the first place. He naturally came to the conclusion that Geralt's mind being so focused on his curse must have caused the vulnerability.

Geralt swatted Jaskier’s hands away from their gentle investigation, instructing him, “Go and get the salve.”

Jaskier held up both his hands in a sarcastic show of surrender, getting up to go and collect the healing kit from their luggage.

He had to walk past the dead wolf to get there. He felt a pang of guilt at causing her demise, but didn't regret it. Jaskier knew Geralt would have managed to kill her without his intervention, perhaps even give her a cleaner, swifter death, but Jaskier had acted upon instinct to try and prevent Geralt from suffering any further, unnecessary injuries.

He wanted to lighten the mood by quipping the scar was certainly going to add to Geralt's brooding handsomeness, but of course, couldn't, giving Geralt’s shoulder a brief squeeze instead upon his return.

Jaskier opened the satchel himself rather than handing the task off to Geralt. He had used it enough times to know what he was doing, pulling out the mortar and pestle, the herbs, adding a pinch of this and that with a little water.

Grinding everything to a paste, Jaskier scooped up the mix with a few fingers once he was done. Geralt's body might be better equipped at reacting to pain and injury, but that didn't mean he was any less entitled to a helping hand to make the process easier.

Like the water rinse, Geralt allowed Jaskier to prepare the salve even though he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. He was too busy stewing internally, pissed off that he had let the situation arise in the first place, even if the animal had been possessed and charged with chaos.

It was a stupid injury as a reward for a stupid mistake. Geralt supposed that, if nothing else, the scar would serve as a reminder not to let his guard down again.

Jaskier brought his free hand to rest gingerly against the back of his head, thumb gentle upon the little patch of skin behind Geralt's ear.

He began to apply the salve neatly to the angry, red line, smoothing it into place with his calloused fingers. He was glad he was there to do it; Geralt would have had to try and apply it by touch otherwise, and would have no doubt both made a mess and caused himself extra discomfort.

Geralt frowned. The contact was nice despite the dull throb of protest the gash gave at being prodded at. He took to glaring at the ground to stop himself from stealing glances at Jaskier’s pleasant features. He was very close and his scent was calming.

It was almost difficult to withstand being attended to so gently. Jaskier was the only human he’d ever known who was so willing to touch him with such a casual and familiar air. Even after all this time, it still felt foreign, like something he shouldn’t be allowed to indulge in.

It felt particularly unearned when he had royally failed at keeping the bard out of harm's way.

Jaskier noticed the way Geralt's amber eyes stayed firmly on his lap. His whole body was tensed up, the veins in his arm pronounced from his hands being curled into such tight fists that Jaskier could almost hear Geralt beating himself up inside.

The moment was unavoidably intense without Jaskier’s commentary as a distraction.

Jaskier’s furrowed brows softened once he was done. He wiped the excess against the rim of the bowl and guided Geralt's jaw into cradling hands, telling himself he was just checking he had got everywhere.

Geralt avoided his eye contact, looking to the side that time.

Feeling bold, Jaskier fondly patted Geralt's uninjured cheek a few times as if to say _there, there_ , the hand then sliding to the side of his neck, coming to rest against his broad shoulder.

The action finally got Geralt to look at Jaskier, and when he did, Jaskier smiled, trying to communicate to him that everything was okay.

Geralt couldn’t help but revel in the sensation of Jaskier’s rough fingers brushing over bare skin, Jaskier’s intense, oceanic gaze giving him a jolt of electricity he barely contained, having not expected to find it so close, so potent.

It was reassuring, in a way, but it also made something in his chest tighten that was difficult to explain. He guessed this was all a result of how conflicted he was feeling; on the one hand he wanted to indulge in the fantasies he harbored, but on the other he wanted to keep Jaskier at a safe and familiar distance.

Geralt was forced to look away again, mildly panicked beneath his schooled features.

Jaskier saw its glimmer, having no time to process its meaning before it was gone.

Discomfort, he supposed, Geralt trying to find the words to reject Jaskier gently. Just because he had bedded men didn't mean he was interested in sharing Jaskier's sheets, in baring his soul to him. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but ache in wonder over what the men he _had_ shared an evening with looked like, how they had behaved, how they had successfully captured Geralt's interest.

His hands retracted from Geralt’s personal space, having no idea just how simultaneously unsolicited yet immediately, sorely missed they were.

“That was no wolf.” Geralt fixed whatever was happening with a janky conversation opener.

Jasker raised a questioning brow, recovered. It had very much seemed like a wolf to him.

“It was once one,” expanded Geralt, “but it had been changed into something different with magic. A disposable familiar. It must have been sent to attack us.” 

The more truthful _to attack you_ was omitted.

Jaskier looked troubled. He understood the unsaid, concerned that he had not only caused Geralt to lower his guard, but that he was the reason the beast had attacked in the first place. _He_ was the reason for Geralt’s grizzly gash.

Despite the pair blaming themselves respectively, they both came to the same conclusion; that whoever had put this curse on Jaskier wasn’t very happy about Geralt’s attempts to rectify it.

“You should’ve ran,” Geralt eventually said, unsettled by the fact that Jaskier had been put so directly in danger. Had Jaskier’s attack on the wolf had been misplaced, it could have endangered him even further, and it was not a risk Geralt liked him to take so recklessly.

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue. 

He should have done what? Stepped back and let the wolf tear up Geralt's flesh? Waited for the Witcher to handle it alone when Jaskier had a perfect good blade within his reach?

Unable to put forward his side, Jaskier's mouth snapped back shut and he instead gave Geralt a brief, potent stink eye he hoped conveyed the message.

“Hm,” grunted Geralt, attention going to repacking his medical supplies, rinsing his tools. “We should leave before the blood attracts anything else dangerous.”

It was an excuse to get them moving again so Geralt couldn’t ponder his feelings any longer, but it wasn’t untrue.

Geralt was already walking towards Roach before Jaskier could reply, making quick work of calming her down and getting her back in her saddle.

Jaskier watched Geralt turn and his shoulders sagged with a sigh. 

He went to roll up their beds and collect their things, taking their flasks and heading towards a nearby stream to collect water whilst Geralt loaded everything onto Roach. Done with that, Geralt cleaned off his bloodied sword and sheathed it away safely again, restrapping his armour to his body and passing Jaskier some of their rations for breakfast upon his return.

Geralt didn’t bother to eat himself so they could set off. He knew Jaskier prefered to sit and eat, but he was anxious to get out of the area, ignoring Jaskier’s obvious displeasure as he chewed on salted meat, the dull crunch of his feet drowned out by Roach’s lazy clops.

The cut on Geralt’s face was already beginning to heal behind its salve, the pain from it eventually dissipating into an uncomfortable ache, and then, finally, an itch.

He told himself he was going more mindful and cautious going forward, lest the situation repeat itself, scowling at the road ahead as he and his bard continued on their journey.


	8. INTERLUDE II

**╔══════════════╗**

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER** ****

**╚══════════════╝** ****


	9. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is ready to let go but Geralt refuses.  
> Left alone and waiting for Geralt in some backstreet tavern, Jaskier is cornered by one of the most frightening monsters of all: a human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please remind yourself of the tags before reading this chapter. the rating has also been bumped up to 'explicit'
> 
> thanks x

Jaskier was finally coming to terms with the knowledge he was going to be stuck with this curse for the rest of his life. It was time to let go of the notion it was something to be fixed. Time to stop the constant travelling, the deadend leads, the pointless conversations with sorcerers who all said the same thing as they took their – _ Gerlat’s _ – money. It was time to allow this to become the new normal.

Of course Geralt wasn't of this opinion. He was still just as driven as he had been the previous year, perhaps even more so, teetering on the edge of despair. The mission remained one of his utmost priorities, much to Jaskier’s exasperation.

So, here he was. In Cintra again. Gerlat had abandoned him in some tavern he hadn’t caught the name of, gone off to track down some mage they’d heard through the grapevine was well-versed in the art of hex magic.

At least Jaskier had a belly warm with ale and a feather bed prepaid for, playing his lute as an [instrumental](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vD_1Klq63pk&ab_channel=TheMultiEthnic) backdrop for the patrons to enjoy. He nodded as a coin was tossed into his open coin sack, flashing charming smiles to whoever felt generous enough (or drunk enough) to part with their gold.

He wondered where Geralt was. He had told Jaskier he would be back before supper, but that had long since come and went. He wasn't too worried, but it was still getting late, and if the Witcher didn't show up soon, Jaskier was going to retire to their room to sleep.

Jaskier smiled to himself a little.

Geralt and he had been sharing a lot of rooms together these days. Geralt had implied it was the better idea due to Jaskier's lack of coin, but Jaskier found that his vocal-less performances were doing better than he had initially feared they would. He was certain Geralt was aware of it, too, so it had to be an excuse for close quarters.

A lot of Geralt's recent behaviours towards Jaskier were aligning up with the lingering hope their relationship wasn't as one-sided as he’d assumed all these years. It was hard to find another explanation for the change in their dynamic.

The Witcher had yet to abandon Jaskier despite his condition causing more difficulties than it should logically be worth. He was putting more of an effort into communicating with him, and Jaskier was able to feel Geralt's eyes often pointed his way, silently watching him. They sat closer to one another, and now Geralt allowed Jaskier to casually touch him without complaint. Jaskier would even dare to say Geralt  _ enjoyed _ it, although it was hard to tell with Geralt due to his impassive nature.

Jaskier finished up his plucking and ended his performance with a slight bow. The bigger audience meant a bigger patter of applause, Jaskier in a good mood as he packed away his instrument and slid over to the bar for a nightcap.

Ale in hand, he found himself a table. Jaskier gave his coin purse a little rummage. He’d made a decent amount. Now all that was left to do was convince Geralt to spend it on something more constructive than another wasted journey. He’d count it more thoroughly tomorrow morning.

The chair opposite creaked. Jaskier assumed it was Geralt and that he’d somehow just missed his arrival, but was instead met by a stranger, his bright look of greeting receding slightly.

“Tell me,” the man began, voice raspy and stinking of alcohol, “How does a  _ mute bard  _ come to travel wit’ the great White Wolf?”

At such an abrupt arrival, Jaskier blinked in mild bemusement.

“Oh, wait,” he snickered. “You can’t!”

Jaskier raised a good-natured eyebrow at the drunkard, staying relaxed in his chair and offering a half smile at his attempt at a joke. He was crude-looking. Not necessarily ugly, but certainly poorly cared for. His chin was marked with uneven stubble and the odd nick of skin from shaving while drunk. Another lonely man who had had a few too many by the looks of it, searching for an ear to listen to his rambling.

“Name’s Gildret. I’m a fur merchant. Heard the barmaids talking about you. You’re Jaskier, right?”

Fighting a smirk, Jaskier nodded. He supposed he could get out his song book to reply, but decided he'd just let the man say whatever it was he wanted to get off his chest. It would be a while until he finished his drink anyway. It truly amazed Jaskier just how much people would share their personal lives with him now he had no way of commenting upon the stories he was being told.

Maybe that was why Geralt ended up caught in so many people's problems; humans naturally wanted to fill up silence. Gods knew Jaskier had had that impulse for as long as he could remember. It was only just starting to calm down as he finally adjusted to his new day-to-day.

Gildret glanced around the tavern and Jaskier wondered what he was looking for. Then he slumped back further in his seat, sloppy eyes looking Jaskier up-and-down. “A lot of silk you’ve got on there,” he commented.

Jaskier shrugged. What could he say, he liked nice things. First impressions were everything when you were an entertainer.

“Your pretty background music really affords you all that?” Emboldened by Jaskier’s inability to reply or speak up, Gildret continued, “Or does that Witcher pay your fees?”

Although unsure what Gildret’s angle was, Jaskier was entertained. He, of course, stayed silent and waited to find out what direction this was headed, taking another mouthful of ale.

“Yeah. You’re ‘bout the most interesting thing what’s rolled into these parts lately,” he said, looking about the room again. “Everyone else ‘round here’s a bunch of fucking prudes! Bet you get up to your share o’ fun on the road, aye, bard?”

For a moment he thought Gildret’s intention was to get a rise out of him, but then Jaskier’s smile twisted with amusement as he realised he was being flirted with. Or at least, a misguided attempt at flirtation was being pushed his way.

“What d’ya say?” Gildret said, Jaskier’s assumption confirmed as he was given bedroom eyes.

Jaskier shrugged up a shoulder, eyes politely drifting away to try and indicate his disinterest gently. Even if Geralt hadn't become his primary focus these days, he wouldn't have given him the time of day anyway. His penis was never that desperate. Still, despite rejecting him, Gildret had Jaskier’s empathy. He knew how difficult it was to make your interest known to another man whilst skirting the fine line of staying undetected by everyone else around you, or worse, misjudging your target completely and ending up with one's teeth kicked in.

“Come on,” pushed Gildret, lowering his voice. “I have the gold. I can pay a pretty penny for your time.”

Eyes remaining ahead, Jaskier discreetly shook his head.

Gildret shifted around in his seat a moment. At long last he tipped back the rest of his drink. “Fine. Suit yourself,” he huffed. 

He pushed himself up from his seat and staggered back to his original table, already sloppily waving over the barmaid for another beer. Jaskier was relieved that he had backed off with relative ease and soon forgot about him. He finished his tankard for something to do, keeping an eye on the door. Where was he? He should have been back hours ago.

Deciding he was too tired to wait in the hubbub of the pub, Jaskier grabbed his lute and headed for their room.

He hummed to himself internally. He was getting better at working out melodies in his head, rather than aloud as he had done his whole life since bard college, another adjustment that had just taken a little time. He still gave all his pieces lyrics, not that anyone would know. Jaskier prefered it that way, liked to give his songs stories and meanings behind them, rather than the simple chord progressions everyone else heard.

On the stairwell, Jaskier heard the creak of someone following behind him, but paid it no mind. Just another patron ready for a night’s rest.

He’d barely got the key out of his room’s door when Jaskier was shoved, falling onto his hands and knees. His lute’s case slammed just as hard against the floorboards, the bang covered up by all the noise downstairs. Alarmed, Jaskier whipped his head over his shoulder.

It was the man from earlier: Gildret. He swung the door shut with a violent kick. “Teach you to ignore me. Fuckin’ pouf.”

Eyes wide, Jaskier immediately recognised what was about to happen if he failed to act fast enough. He didn’t waste a moment more, rushing to get to his feet so that he could defend himself better.

It seemed Gildret wasn’t one to waste time either. He surged forward to grab Jaskier by the back of his doublet, roughly dragging him to put some distance between them and the exit, grunting at the effort.

Choked by his collar, Jaskier gagged. Panic shot through him white hot. His attacker was strong, bigger than him, and  _ angry. _ The alcohol in his system might have made Gildret’s movements sluggish and clumsy, but they were still forceful. Practised, Jaskier realised with horror. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this.

But this wasn't the first time Jaskier had been cornered like this either. It was a dangerous task for a young boy to travel across the lands on his own to reach the bard college in Oxenfurt, and Jaskier had to adapt fast to keep himself safe.

Adrenaline had his heart racing, his mind working on instinct to find an escape route. He changed tactics, gave up on trying to get to his feet, knew that would just waste precious energy. 

He went limp and allowed himself to be dragged like a ragdoll. As he was thrown over onto his back, however, Jaskier drew in his knees and used their momentum to place a double-footed kick to Gildret’s soft stomach.

Jaskier had expected (prayed) that the kick would have put the stranger out of commission for long enough to get himself in a better position, but it seemed Gildret was too drunk to feel the full extent of the attack.

“You-” Splittle flew from between Gildret’s teeth, rage reignited even fiercer. One hand briefly cradled his midsection before both of them flew out to grab Jaskier’s ankles, successfully stopping him from trying again.

Terror he wasn't going to be able to get away was ramping up inside Jaskier as he was restrained before he even had the chance to do so much as roll over. He grabbed one of the bed's legs, tried to drag himself away, but it turned out to be just as fruitless.

_ No, no, no. Geralt. Geralt, where are you? Where the fuck are you?! Help me, you useless Witcher! Gods. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck- he’s going to rape me. Gods, he’s really going to rape me. Please, not again. Not again- _

Jaskier was really starting to panic, chest heaving. The light-headedness eating away at the last tendrils of his will to fight. He sobbed in desperation, going weak and numb. Gildret’s weight was suffocating on top of him, his slimy tongue squirming all over Jaskier’s face, his unwanted hand invading Jaskier's pants. 

All at once, the rumbling, scrambling panic inside him quietened to nothing.

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he was filled with a calm, still clarity. He saw in Gildret’s face the man who had done this to him as a boy and a dark, repulsed fury roared in Julien’s ears that this monster dared think he could do this to him.

Jaskier’s teeth sunk deep into Gildret’s face, wanting him to hurt just as much as he had that night long ago. He tasted iron on his tongue, but he only bit harder, blunt nails scratching like talons down his greasy neck.

Gildret shouted out in pain, jerking away from Jaskier’s mouth. “Ah! Fuckin’ cunt!”

Jaskier bared red teeth, empowered by the pain he’d inflicted. He grabbed Gildret by his hair and used his whole weight to slam his heavier body sideways into the wall, the mirror above crashing down on top of them.

They both scrambled around in the broken glass for the upper hand. Gildret managed to re-straddle Jaskier’s hips, determined to overpower as he made an attempt at pinning his wrists.

Jaskier snarled. His entire being burned with a hatred he’d never felt, a newer, intenser version of his initial adrenaline alighting his veins. He snatched for the closest chunk of glass he could find, grabbed the front of Gildret’s shirt and used it as an anchor to hoist up his own torso. 

He let out a silent scream of rage, driving the mirror's shard into his throat. He didn’t care as wet blood rained down over his face and into his mouth, didn’t care as Gildret gurgled and sputtered around it, his eyes bulged in shock that no doubt numbed the pain. One of the man’s hands clamped over the bleeding, the other shooting up in a pointless attempt to fend off Jaskier’s completed attack.

It was Jaskier's turn to shove Gildret backward, upon his thrashing body in an instant. 

Gildret tried to cry out through the blood drowning him, but it came out as nothing more than a wet wheeze. Jaskier was merciless. He remained blank as he drew the shard out, the blood flowing so thick and fast it was almost black.

Jaskier raised the bloodied weapon up above his head and brought it down for a final time, buried it deep inside the man's eye socket. Gildret’s body fell limp and loose as it made contact, left him dead on the floor.

From above, Jaskier struggled violently to catch his breath. He watched blankly as red rivers flooded the room, the smell of bloodshed finally hitting his nostrils, sticking to the back of his throat.

Jaskier's arms wound around himself, wanting some comfort, empty and expressionless from atop Gildret's corpse. He squeezed and jolted at the pain that came from his hands. He turned over his palms, vaguely noticing how violently they were shaking, the deep, nasty gashes he had inflicted upon himself.

He hadn't felt anything at all during the murder itself, observing with the same distant expression as his wounds dripped more blood down his wrists, as it soaked the sleeves of his shirt, as it added to the overflown pool of death surrounding them.

Onto feet with weak legs, Jaskier grasped for the bed, needed somewhere to sit that wasn’t slick with blood. He hunched over and put his head between his knees. Closing his eyes, Jaskier counted his breaths, trying to cease the tremor of his bones as he ached for Geralt’s return.


	10. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Geralt returns, things are not how he left them.

Roach clopped leisurely as Geralt rode her through the darkened path, unhindered by the usual swarms that filled Cintra’s markets and streets during the day. He saw no reason to hurry her, not when she was so visibly tired, about as ready for bed as Geralt was for his.

Their visit to the supposedly very knowledgeable mage just outside of the city had been a complete and utter bust, walking away with less coin and no definitively useful information for his trouble. 

Reaching the inn, he left Roach with the stable hand and stooped through the entrance. Most patrons had left by then, but Geralt’s eyes didn’t see them straight away, too blind-sighted by the rush of iron hitting the back of his throat. Blood. And not just from some bar scuffle, either. A lot of it.

Searching the area for an answer, Jaskier’s safety on the forefront of his mind, he was cut off by a teenage barmaid.

“Mister Witcher,” she said, wringing the rag she’d been using to wipe up the tables. “I think your bard might need a hand upstairs.” 

She seemed more on the side of nervous than frightened, jerked her thumb to the staircase up to the inn’s rooms. Geralt followed the gesture with his yellow eyes, his concern mounting.

“Hm.” He grunted in reply, pushing past her wordlessly to investigate.

Midway up the stairs, Geralt’s footsteps became heavier and more urgent when he caught the smell of fear mixed with the blood, thick and gelatinous in the air. He didn’t hesitate to throw the door to their room, thunder cast over his features.

Inside, Jaskier, who had been staring blankly ahead, flinched in surprise as the door burst open. He quickly relaxed, putting a hand to his chest and giving a dramatic roll of the eyes as if to say _Jesus, Geralt, you scared the devil out of me!_ The causal reaction was unnervingly out of place from where he was perched, the eye of the sticky blood bath.

Blood was splattered across Jaskier's face and through his hair, soaked into the fabric of his clothes, bloodied handprints showing where Jaskier had grabbed the sheets to get to his feet and move to the bed to rest.

Geralt’s frown deepened as he took in the scene laid out in front of him. He asked roughly, “Jaskier, what the fuck happened?”

Jaskier numbly gestured about, seemingly in shock.

At the movement of his hands, Geralt caught sight of his injuries. It ignited something angry and protective in the pit of his stomach. “You’re hurt. Let me see.”

Jaskier held out his hands obediently, to which Geralt approached to inspect them. He noted his cuts were still weeping a little, although they had stopped trickling down his arms by that point. He was still shaking, but it was minute compared to what it had been. Geralt's presence alone instinctively put him back at some ease.

Before Geralt could get close enough, however, Jaskier retracted in remembrance of his lute, which had tumbled hard to the floor beside him when Gildret had initially pushed him. He went to try and get to his feet to check to make sure his precious instrument was okay, but was stopped.

Geralt shot a glare, firm hand on his shoulder keeping him in place. “Sit down.” He growled. 

At first he thought that Jaskier intended to check on the dead man, but following his gaze he realised Jaskier’s attention instead resided when he saw his lute case on the ground near the door.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “Just sit.”

Jaskier gave Geralt a look but did as he was told, admittedly still a little woozy.

Geralt couldn’t exactly figure out what in the world had happened, except for the obvious fact that the bard had been forced to defend himself— and rather successfully at that, he noted.

Upon the case being brought over, Jaskier gestured for Geralt to check it with his bloodied hands, his shoulders slumping with relief at the sight of it; completely intact, not a string out of place. Thank the Gods, Jaskier would have killed the dead man again if he'd found it broken.

Geralt moved to kneel on one knee in front of Jaskier once he was satisfied with the state of his instrument, gently coming to grasp Jaskier’s wrists with his own gloved hands.

He turned his palms face up, humming as he looked over his wounds. When he spotted a small shard of glass still stuck inside one of the slices to his skin, he brought a hand up and carefully removed it, discarding it to the floor. Geralt treated Jaskier with much more gentle consideration than he ever did when tending to his own wounds, features set in a firm, concentrated frown as he decided that he wouldn’t need stitches.

He glanced at the man dead on the floor again, and then to Jaskier’s blood splattered face. Geralt was surprised by how he didn’t seem weepy or frightened like he would have expected from him.

“Hm. He attacked you?” He asked, allowing Jaskier to communicate what happened without needing to write.

Jaskier felt a deep throb of affection for Geralt as he was treated with such care, met with the overwhelming desire to lean forward and embrace him in his vulnerable state. Of course, he didn't, and instead gave a jerky nod in response to the Witcher's question.

He sniffed and wiped at a slick cheek with the back of his hand, nose wrinkling as he settled back into his senses. The reality of being drenched in blood was not a fun one. His fight instinct had shut off his disgust, but it was back now, wanting to get out of his clothes and into a bath, swirl his mouth out with ale.

Swallowing, Jaskier could feel something tacky caught in his teeth, pulling a face and reaching into his mouth to remove it. It was a piece of skin. Jaskier gagged and threw it in the direction of the blood pool.

Geralt hummed sympathetically at Jaskier’s revulsion; it was unpleasant enough for _him_ to get blood and viscera in his mouth when fighting, so he could imagine how disgusting it must be for someone not used to it.

He got up from his kneeling position after gently releasing his wrists, taking the few steps to grab the jug of water left out on the writing desk for washing up and brushing teeth, bringing the clean water up to Jaskier’s lips so he could rinse his mouth clean.

Jaskier was further repulsed by the colour of the water that came out of his mouth as he rinsed it out, the taste of iron still lingering on his tongue when he was finished.

Geralt felt a little guilty for not having been there to prevent the situation from getting as bad as it had, but he supposed that Jaskier had done exceptionally well in his place. Once Jaskier had washed his mouth out, he again gestured for him to hold out his hands.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

The bard shook his head, standing up and shooing away the Witcher's fretting touch, beginning to strip out of his clothes. He removed his doublet and undershirt, both ruined, the waistband of his pants warped from being stretched by the rapist so he could get his hand down it. He dropped them, left stood in his linen undergarments.

Geralt set the jug back on the desk after pouring some of it into the wash basin, averting his eyes considerately while he undressed. It felt wrong to ogle him, even discreetly, in such an upsetting context.

“Wash the blood from your hands. I’ll wrap them.” He said, glancing his way and feeling a new spark of rage light in his chest at the sight of his stretched waistband.

It painted a picture of the events of the evening very clearly.

Geralt went over to investigate the dead man. He tipped the rapist’s head to the side with the toe of his boot, the lolling of his skull causing a new, slow ooze of blood from the wound to his throat.

The attack was well-landed, and the bite and scratch marks on his upper half were further proof of Jaskier’s valiant rebuttal. He considered the shard of glass protruding from his eye socket to be a particularly pleasing touch. Geralt couldn’t help but feel a bit impressed, if not slightly proud, that he’d handled himself so capably.

“Good job,” he said, looking back to Jaskier. He certainly knew the man would’ve met a similarly brutal fate if he’d been there to intervene.

Jaskier nodded in agreement without looking up from the careful washing of his hands, trying not to disturb the cuts too badly and cause himself more discomfort than necessary. He knew even without Geralt's reassurance that he was right to kill him, a lot less disturbed by his own actions than he had anticipated he would be after murdering someone, even if they were so deranged.

Maybe his horror was oncoming, delayed, but all Jaskier felt was the relief that he had been successful in defending himself this time around, that the man would be unable to force himself on another victim; someone young and vulnerable, unable to fight back.

Jaskier was brought back to the memory of the man who had forced himself on him as a teenager, having to stop the washing of his hands, closing his eyes and taking a shuddery breath.

He had wanted to kill that monster, too, but he had been just a child and powerless.

Maybe all the stewing Jaskier had done over what he would do if he ever saw that man again, trapped and unable to escape his fate by any other means, had amounted to the violence that had come out of him in such a blind rage.

That terrible night had taught Julian, the soft noble boy who had dreamed of the glamorous life that awaited him in Oxenfurt, a valuable lesson. One can never trust anyone.

Yet.

These many years travelling with this Witcher had taught Jaskier, the silver-tongued bard who dreamed of finally ridding himself of this overpowering need to appease the masses to feel whole, another valuable lesson. One can always trust Geralt of Riva.

Jaskier looked to Geralt tiredly, the numb casualness of his expression finally thawing into something more haunted, holding out his clean hands to be dressed.

Geralt set the small healing pack he typically carried with him on the bloodied foot of the bed as Jaskier came over for his hands to be wrapped.

He glanced to his face as he dug out a vial of cleansing liquid, pouring it over his wounds silently and wiping the excess away with a strip of bandage before he began wrapping them, carefully and expertly, over the slices.

Geralt wanted to draw him closer. To hold him, or caress him, or do _anything_ that would soothe that look off of his face. Jaskier didn’t deserve to be faced with such revolting things, no matter how well he had withstood them, and it made his heart ache to know that he had not been able to prevent it, and was so emotionally inept that he could not think of how to go about making it any easier to deal with.

Once his injuries were properly taken care of, Geralt drew him back over to the wash basin where he wet the rag he usually used for wiping smudges from his blades and instead used it to wipe Jaskier’s face clean of blood. His ministrations were slightly rough, though they carried a noticeable sense of care in them as he worked, other hand on Jaskier’s bare shoulder to steady him.

“I’ll get us another room. Bring it downstairs.” He gestured with a tilt of his head to the corpse.

Jaskier caught Geralt's elbow when his larger body began to tilt away from him. He knew Geralt should probably do both of those things sooner rather than later, but he wasn't ready to be alone again just yet. He ached for Geralt to know just how comforting he was to Jaskier, how good the swipe of rough fabric from Geralt's sword rag felt against his face, the heavy, dependable hand on the nakedness of his shoulder.

His head felt heavy, and unable to fight it any longer, Jaskier allowed his head to bow forward, for his forehead to rest just below Geralt's shoulder, where it could reach, the dull metal studs there cool against his skin.

He kept his touch wrapped around Geralt's elbow, able to feel his eyes burning behind his closed lids, so tired of having to hide how badly he needed Geralt's touch just to feel right, sick of the constant anxiety he was overstepping boundaries, of second-guessing and overthinking every one of Geralt's grunts and shrugs and side-eyes.

" _Geralt_ ," he mouthed, despite how he knew the Witcher couldn't see his lips.

Geralt hadn’t expected that Jaskier would lean even closer into him, but was even more surprised when he didn’t tense automatically at the unexpected contact.

He sighed softly, and in the process caught Jaskier’s natural scent, familiar and pleasant beneath the stench of blood and death, turning his head towards it and as a result brushing his chin against the side of Jaskier’s head.

It felt wrong to just stand there, so he didn’t. He brought a hand up and rested it at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, hoping to give him comfort, or to let him know that his closeness would not be rejected.

“It’s alright,” he said. He thought his voice sounded too gruff for someone trying to be reassuring, but allowed himself to say it nonetheless.

Jaskier could feel emotion bubbling in the chest, had been on the verge of suppressing it, until Geralt's big hand came to rest, heedful and heady, to the back of his neck.

Geralt’s words might have been gravelly as they always were, but the roughness was familiar and it warmed Jaskier from head to toe. _It's alright,_ he'd said. It was alright. Geralt was there and he was willingly comforting Jaskier, Jaskier able to feel the contact of Geralt's head against his own.

His bottom lip wobbled, and Jaskier was unable to stop himself as his shoulders began to bounce with his sobs. His hand released Geralt's elbow, arms going to try and hug the Witcher's waist instead.

Geralt hummed lowly as Jaskier huddled closer, allowing it without so much as a tensing of his shoulders or an irritated sigh. He’d always found their closeness was much easier to accept when he didn’t have to be the one initiating it, brushing a gloved thumb across the back of his neck softly when his shoulders began to shake.

Once again, he was left wondering _why_ Jaskier could take comfort in him, why he accepted his feeble attempts at reassurance where others would swat him away if he merely attempted it. Though he couldn’t quite understand it, not fully, he couldn’t deny how deeply satisfying it felt to hold his trust.

After a few moments he allowed his other hand to come to rest at the curve of Jaskier’s hip, allowing himself to _try_ despite how unsure he felt of it all; unsure if Jaskier would find his touch soothing, or if it was right to let himself indulge in the way Jaskier made him feel, if he should lean away from human connections as Vesemir had taught him.

However, as he stood there with Jaskier openly clinging to him, he couldn’t find the energy in him to refuse the small pleasure of being there for someone he knew he loved.

If Jaskier wasn't already openly weeping, the soft embrace of Geralt's hand on his bare hip would have indefinitely tipped him off. It unlocked a part of himself he didn't even realise still existed. He had never felt so wholly and completely embraced before.

There was so much he wanted to say as he blubbered pathetically, the calm acceptance of his curse shattered like the mirror he'd just used to murder a man.

It wasn't fair, why did the Gods always make him suffer so badly before he was allowed even the slightest of good in return? Despite the fleeting thought, Jaskier would still voluntarily take all of the hardship if it meant finally winning Geralt's steady, thoughtful touch.

Jaskier cried only for a little longer, letting himself be soothed by the slow roll of Geralt's thumb against his neck, the feeling of Geralt's tough armour against his bare chest, his leather gloved touch firm and right against his waist.

He retracted a hand to wipe under his nose with his wrist, peering up at his friend, red-eyed and overwhelmed with love and gratitude and _relief_ Geralt was there.

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to cup his strong jaw with ginger hands, finally press that wet kiss into Geralt's mouth he'd done nothing but long for until his insides burned and ached, jealous and miserable, anxious and hoping. Always lonely yet never so accompanied.

He settled for a quick caress to Geralt's shoulder instead, giving a withered smile and a nod before he released him.

Geralt hadn’t quite realized how badly he’d wanted to have Jaskier held close until he was finally able to do it, letting Jaskier pull away once his crying finally ceased despite how much he desired to keep him pressed to his chest.

“Hm.” He hummed gently, letting his hands fall away from where they’d rested on his body. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the task at hand, back to the grizzly scene splayed out on the opposite side of the room.

“Come wait in the hall.” He said, shrugging off the cloak we wore around his neck so he could instead drop it over Jaskier’s shoulders, the heavy fabric serving to cover his undressed form and block the light chill in the air as he fixed it over his frame.

Instead of dragging the man’s corpse downstairs where he’d likely be met with drunken accusations of murder, he returned to the tavern and gestured for the concerned teenager from earlier, Silvya, and her father to follow him upstairs.

“My bard was attacked,” he told them plainly, at which Silvya threw her hands upon her hips and exclaimed ‘ _I knew it_!’, “And he was forced to defend himself. I’m sure you understand.”

Jaskier's eyes were still a little red by the time Geralt returned with the innkeeper and his daughter, but he'd mostly regained himself. He stood awkwardly with Geralt's cloak wrapped around his body, his lute case hung over his shoulder, naked toes peeking out the bottom.

The innkeeper sighed and shifted nervously as Geralt brought them up to the room, his daughter seeming the more strong-willed of the pair as she gandered the bedroom with a scrunched nose, shooting Jaskier a sympathetic glance.

“Nothing but trouble, that rotten old pig,” she said, shaking her head with disapproval. “If you ask me, the alderman ought to have ran him out of town years ago! Serves him right.”

Geralt hummed in acknowledgment. “Will we be able to get another room?”

The innkeeper looked poised to refuse, but Silvya responded first, “Oh, of course, Mister Witcher. Wouldn’t ask you to stay in here _now_.” Not looking keen to upset Geralt, the innkeeper nodded, and hurried away to fetch them another key.

As Jaskier watched Geralt speak for the both of them, he missed the days when he used to do it for them instead. Still, there was something to say about Geralt's bluntness that got them what they needed as fast as possible most of the time. Everything a Witcher's being was made to be was efficient.

He worried over if they were going to have enough to buy Jaskier new clothes and boots, knowing with how saturated the old ones were in blood, it was going to be near impossible to remove the stains without magic. It was sad, really, Jaskier had only just gotten that doublet, traded for his old one and a generous handful of coin. He had really liked it.

Once their new room was arranged and the man’s corpse was being properly disposed of, Geralt went about getting himself free of his armor and weapons. Jaskier was glad to sit down again, pulling out his song book and his wooden pen.

He unfolded his magic parchment. _'I have never killed someone before.'_

At the appearance of the parchments, Geralt came over to read the message.

“Hmm.” He grunted in acknowledgment with a slight nod of his head, having assumed as much. Still, for someone with no training in doing so, Geralt thought he had done well in defending himself and handling the aftermath. “You won’t have to do it again.”

 _That_ Geralt intended to make a promise. Jaskier provided him with companionship and, occasionally, some assistance in the difficulties of travel, so it only seemed right that he provided Jaskier with some level of protection in return.

He’d certainly proved himself capable in providing his own protection, but Geralt didn’t think he should have to.

 _'You don't know that,'_ Jaskier wrote in response. His usual slopping, graceful curves were a little unsteady. _'I thought I would feel—'_

Pausing his penmanship, Jaskier struggled with what he was trying to say. He was still wearing Geralt's cloak, the heavy velvet of the material comfort on his bare shoulders, his front and his legs a little chilly where it parted. 

_'—more remorse.'_

Geralt hummed and came to sit beside him, the bed frame creaking lightly beneath his weight as he unlaced his boots and kicked them aside. He took a few moments to consider his response. He could think of quite a few deaths he had a hand in that he held remorse over, but killing someone like the man lying dead in the other room wouldn’t have been one of them.

“You did what was necessary,” he told him as he straightened. “Remorse comes more easily when what you’ve done is wrong.”

_‘I murdered him, Geralt. I snuffed out a man’s life.’_

“He was no man,” replied Geralt, filled with surety. “You were right to kill him”

Jaskier bit his bottom lip, a bundle of raw nerves. He looked at him, really _looked_ , his gaze unwavering and unafraid of what Geralt might think as it lingered.

Jaskier was so tired. Tired of the evasion, the second-guessing, of the _what-if’s_ and _does-he’s_ , of constantly feeling the fool. The ghost of his past adrenaline still whispering through his veins, Jaskier was finally ready to face the answer, for the truth of they were.

He set the parchment aside and took Geralt's face in his hands.

Geralt stilled, breath catching at Jaskier’s brazenness, but he did not reject it.

At the acceptance, Jaskier allowed himself to take Geralt in, his skin, worn from the elements, the curve of his cupid's bow, his striking eyes, golden, just as intense, just as steady.

He experimented with what Geralt would allow him as he brushed gentle fingers along his jawline, the side of his throat, becoming braver as one thumb brushed the shell of his ear, the other smoothing down a grey eyebrow. He tucked wiry hair behind Geralt's ears, touch ablaze with his affections.

Geralt could not recall the last time he had been granted such a gentle, caring touch, silent as his fingers brushed, soft and slow.

He could feel part of himself itching to pull away. To plunge himself back into a familiar, safe distance, and follow the directive of isolation he had always kept to so closely.

But another, more insistent part of himself was growing impatient. He, too, was tired of denying himself the pleasure of allowing someone to push closer; _exhausted_ with constantly avoiding what he felt in favor of sticking to what was most familiar. What would be the harm, he thought, in indulging in something as sweet and rare as the affections of someone like Jaskier?

If all that Vesemir had taught him was true, that was a very dangerous thought indeed.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said; his voice had something firm, almost _warning_ about it. He could not keep him at arm’s length much longer—not if he kept offering his touches so freely.

Jaskier looked to his companion as if to say _what?_ Geralt still wasn't drawing away, comfortable, so this had to be something he wanted, too. It had to be.

He thought of how Geralt had embraced him mere moments ago, how right their shared closeness had been. It wasn't just Jaskier, it couldn't be, he refused for that to be the case, even as Geralt remained so unreadable

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, the name curt and strained in the Witcher's mouth, but safe, like it belonged there.

Jaskier leaned forward before he could change his mind, eyes remaining open, lips pressing, soft and unyielding, to the corner of Geralt's mouth.

Geralt felt the last vestiges of resistance in his chest snap and fall away as Jaskier closed the distance between them.

He hummed, the sound coming from his chest in a low grumble similar to a growl, and brought a big hand up to rest upon again to crook of Jaskier’s neck, fingers sliding slightly beneath the heavy fabric of his cloak as it rested over his shoulders. Geralt pulled away only for the purpose of repositioning their lips, meeting his eyes briefly before leaning closer again, pressing his mouth directly over Jaskier’s as he let his eyes slip closed.

 _At last_. Jaskier’s heart soared, cupping Geralt like the precious thing he was, basking in the ache of how right they felt against one another. Geralt slid the hand on his neck up, letting his fingers brush through the softness of his hair at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver through Jaskier’s body.

He was so warm. Jaskier lavished Geralt with something more open-mouthed, wanting more, wanting to know everything there was to know about his lips, his tongue, his taste.

It was over much too soon, Geralt untangling them. When Jaskier tried to swoop back in, he was stopped, Geralt’s turn to hold his face. To caress.

Jaskier pleaded with eyes.

“Tomorrow,” Geralt rumbled, kind hand smoothing back his hair.

It was with a reluctance that Jaskier smiled and nodded. 

His exhaustion seeped bone deep, and he knew Geralt was right, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. He gave a final peck of their lips and he shifted downward, a little light-headed. Before Geralt could even get the covers over him, sleep came for him. Jaskier let out a soundless exhale as Geralt’s looming face blurred.

“Sleep, bard,” was the last thing he heard before his mind and body welcomed the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> aiya's [tumblr](https://richie-tozier-is-my-eboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> la's [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurklette/pseuds/gurklette)


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